


Kingdom Come (Undone)

by maydei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Dueling, Enemies to Lovers, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, More tags to be added, Power Dynamics, Rating will change, Schrodinger's Underage (Harry is 17 aka a Legal Adult Wizard), Second War with Voldemort, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: "Blood of mine, be forewarned—the experience is not for the feeble, nor for the faint of heart. If you are willing to sacrifice all you hold dear, immeasurable knowledge and wisdom beyond belief are what you stand to gain."Everythingis a small price to pay for a man with nothing to lose.(Or: a Time Travel AU where a young Lord Voldemort goes forward.)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 252
Kudos: 638
Collections: Fics I Want to Linger On, Lady Bibliophile's Collection of Incredible Fanfiction





	1. 1:1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [draw me after you (let us run)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327684) by [ToAStranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger). 



> Me, to @exarite: ...what about an AU where Young Voldemort/Tom Riddle messes around with dark magic and gets yeeted _forward_ in time?
> 
> [One Month Later] [reads "draw me after you (let us run)"] [galaxy brains]  
>  ~~ToAStranger, i love you, your work is massively inspiring with the way the characters interact and the way you built your world, and here i am... just having a good time and offering good vibes, wanting to try my own hand at something a little different, but that you've definitely had a hand in making A Real Thing~~
> 
> So... *Will Smith pose* this is my new baby. It's gonna be big. It's gonna be long as hell. It's gonna be slow-burny, and it's gonna burn _good_. The rating WILL change. More tags are going to be added as time goes on, but I will add any relevant warnings in the chapter notes. However there shouldn't be any major warnings that we're not expecting by nature of it being about... well, you know, _these two_. 
> 
> Also: I debated this for a while. Harry is 17 in this fic, which branches off from Deathly Hallows' canon — but given that 17 is the age of legal adulthood in Wizarding society, I'm not going to tag this as underage or list it as a major warning. If Harry being 17 is morally bothersome, this fic probably isn't for you. 
> 
> My outline put Act I at 20 chapters, and I've already split chapter one in half because it was 10k words. And knowing my track record with long fics... well. Anyway. If you're ready for an adventure, buckle up. I have a plan from start to finish, and it's go time.
> 
>   
> 

> **December 1997**

_If I survive this,_ Harry thinks somewhat uncharitably, as he shivers beneath blankets that are far too thin, _I am never going camping again._

Well… perhaps that’s a little too harsh—for being on the run as Undesirable Number One is far from a romp in the woods. As Harry thinks back on the summer preceding his fourth year at Hogwarts, he remembers sharing the tent with the Weasleys outside the Quidditch World Cup with more fondness than he regards this particular situation. 

He pushes those thoughts away. He doesn’t want to think about the Weasleys right now—not when the absence of familiar snoring leaves a hollow, aching space inside his ribs. That wound is still too raw. He and Hermione have been making due on their own, but he doesn’t have to be wearing Slytherin’s locket around his neck for those thoughts to weigh heavily on his mind. 

As they do—and as he does—now.

The locket’s chain creates a soft _whirr_ as Harry holds the pendant between his fingers, sliding it back and forth along its tether. He doesn’t want to take it off, but there’s something about wearing it that’s disconcerting; it’s warmer than it should be for a lump of gold that isn’t even tucked inside his shirt. And (he’s thought it before, and thinks it again now), it… feels alive, somehow. Like a tiny heartbeat, as he closes it in the palm of his hand. Its serpentine _S_ of inlaid emeralds presses against the creases in his skin: heart, head, fate, and life lines.

Trelawney would probably find some way to predict his death from it. Harry muffles a dark snicker at the thought; at the rate he’s going with this horcrux hunt, she’s probably not wrong.

He sobers at that. Then, he sits up.

Harry knows this restlessness; knows he won’t be able to sleep while it’s haunting him. Hermione’s many enchantments protect them well enough, so there’s really no need to keep watch, but maybe a walk would do him some good. If nothing else, being outside the tent might actually remind his body to appreciate the warmth their mismatched blankets provide. Harry pulls on his trainers over two pairs of socks, and a tatty old jacket over his age-worn jumper. He pats down his pants pocket to ensure his wand is tucked inside—even through the denim, he can feel the reassuring weight of his holly wand. In the other, he feels the folded shape of the invisibility cloak. Inside his shirt, slung around his neck, is his mokeskin pouch. And, as Harry zips the jacket up, he tucks the locket out of sight.

Slytherin’s locket; Tom Riddle’s horcrux.

He would do well not to forget.

He spares a glance down at Hermione, but from the way she’s hunkered in, he can barely see the slightly-blurred shape of her dark, frizzy hair. His lips quirk in a slight smile that doesn’t quite reach his heart, given the weight around his neck—Harry takes a blanket from his bedroll and sweeps it over her. He’ll steal it back when he returns.

For now, he’ll soothe this pacing creature inside his mind by walking it off, himself. 

Harry ducks out of the tent and seals it, setting off to explore the little island in the middle of the Scottish loch as the falling snow fills in his footprints behind him.

* * *

> **December 1961**

The old hinges creak upon his entry to what was once a handsome home; the door swings shut and settles with a _click_ of solemn finality. Broad, bony hands pluck at brass buttons until they’re all undone. He sweeps the heavy, black cloak from his shoulders and hangs it on a hook beside the entryway; brushes snowflakes from his hair as he passes down the hall. As he passes the old mirror, his reflection is a wraith in the corner of his eye dressed in dark tones, slacks and a pressed shirt. The only thought he spares is that the glass could use a good dusting.

He, too, may have once been called handsome—not that his looks have entirely left him. Instead, there is a certain air of something… off-putting. _Wrong,_ almost. Yes, his hair is still dark and thick and possesses a certain curl that is reminiscent of the figures in the aged portraits on the walls; the set of his shoulders is strong, and his bone structure is fine. However, he knows there is a certain… falseness, now, to the way he looks. It bothered him, once. But the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks. 

Perhaps he should have reconsidered meeting with Albus Dumbledore so soon after creating his fifth horcrux—the process is taxing on the body at best, disfiguring at worst. He looked more like a monster in the shape of a man a month ago than he does now. The whites of his eyes no longer seem bloody; the waxy pallor to his skin has somewhat cleared as his soul’s shattered edges have finally dulled. Perhaps it would have helped, but he’s no fool.

Lord Voldemort knows damn well that Dumbledore never intended to hire him for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. In truth, despite the bitter sting of rejection at being summarily and finally turned away from the only place he’s ever called home, he never had any intention of working under the old man’s watchful eyes.

And, yet.

The floor creaks beneath his feet as he follows the dull glow of the oil lights deeper into Riddle Manor. His brief return to Hogwarts a month ago allowed him the opportunity to place Ravenclaw’s diadem into the Room of Hidden Things, where it will surely never be found—but it was not the only one of Hogwarts’ hidden secrets he was anxious to revisit. 

The drawing room was once a richly-furnished and comfortable haven. Since Lord Voldemort seized the house that was his by paternal legacy, willing or no, the furnishings have been cleared away; instead, an expansive study has taken its place. A desk is pushed up against one wall, the surface covered with antique texts and yellowed pages. A weathered, leatherbound book is perhaps the most unusual of the lot: the strokes within which are handwritten in a language that is not readable to anyone thinking to peer at it from over the reader’s shoulder—or, indeed, even when viewing the text directly.

Parseltongue is a fluency that’s his by birthright. So, too, is the book that he had foolishly left in Slytherin’s secret library when he graduated. He had thought, at seventeen, that he would continue to walk the halls of Hogwarts for many years; would have a hundred chances to return to the Chamber of Secrets, and the antechamber where Slytherin’s study resided. 

It had taken another seventeen years to reclaim his inheritance. In his opinion, it’s not a moment too soon, if only for the prize that lies so promisingly in its pages:

> _...for nothing made more clear to me my noble purpose than the potion that follows herein. Blood of mine, be forewarned—the experience is not for the feeble, nor for the faint of heart. If you are willing to sacrifice all you hold dear, immeasurable knowledge and wisdom beyond belief are what you stand to gain._

What a promise to make to a man who holds nothing dear at all.

True, he has created five horcruxes, where even the most daring and accomplished of Dark wizards previously only managed one. Yes, he knows he is destined for greatness, and is willing to do anything to attain it. He is ruthless, he is cunning; he has the strong beginnings of an army at his back in the loyalty of his Death Eaters, who are willing to do anything, _anything_ he says. There is no power quite like it. 

Yet… immeasurable knowledge. 

Lord Voldemort has always considered himself a scholar. 

In the center of the room, a small brass cauldron simmers. It steams in wisps that look like clouds; it has no discernible scent, except that if he were to describe it in a word, the vapor carries the same smell of the outside—crisp and cold. He is not fool enough to inhale deeply, since Salazar Slytherin’s journal is woefully unclear on exactly _what_ this potion does: only the ingredients required and the process to brew it, and how, exactly, to go about using it once the potion is complete.

If Slytherin’s warning had not been enough to dissuade the faint of heart, surely the ingredient list _would_ have been.

> _...the distilled blood of a unicorn… powdered fang of a basilisk… a crystallized phoenix tear… a cross-section of fulgurite (whole)… the brain of a centaur… the All-Seeing Eye of a Seer…_

That the potion must be brewed within a runic circle and finished beneath the full moon are the least of its requirements, which have finally come to fruition, and now… 

He removes the potion from the heat, but does not yet remove it from the spell circle written in chalk upon the floor. Instead, he takes a wide and shallow bowl, not unlike that suited to a Pensieve, and sets it beside the cauldron. He pours the potion into it.

“Finally,” Lord Voldemort murmurs in satisfaction as he observes the nearly-finished product—a brew that is thin as water and that looks like liquid silver in the light, perfectly reflective as the surface of a mirror. All that remains: Voldemort takes a knife, the blade flashing as he punctures the pad of his index finger. After all, the potion only calls for three drops of blood from the user to bind it to him—no more, no less.

 _“Fatum ad invenium,”_ he murmurs as the blood hits the surface. One… two… _“Fatum ligarum.”_

…three. 

He lifts the bowl; with barely a thought, the papers and books atop his desk leap into movement, righting themselves and stacking together neatly, leaving the surface free and clear for him to set it down in the puddle of moonlight that shines through the window. Fierce excitement makes a home in his chest—the incantation, too, seems straightforward enough.

My fate found, my fate bound.

To catch a glimpse of everything yet to come, the greatness he has yet to achieve… 

_Everything_ is a small price to pay for a man with nothing to lose. 

But it will not do to get too excited; Voldemort takes a breath and paces the perimeter of the room, extinguishing each oil lamp one at a time. A nonverbal _Episkey_ seals over the cut on his finger; passable, though he has never excelled at healing spells. The smoke from blowing out the final candle curls inside the glass walls of its tiny prison, painting the space in a hazy gray. It goes unnoticed as the room is extinguished into night.

Voldemort holds his wand loosely between his fingers as he turns and surveys the bowl. The liquid inside does not ripple or whirl, and is instead calm and smooth as glass now that it has settled. It looks, for all intents and purposes, harmless and innocuous. But he knows poisons and potions of all sorts that can look harmless, and in reality, be anything but.

But this is the brew that his great ancestor attributed to _realizing his noble purpose—_ and Lord Voldemort is second to none.

He crosses the room, the yew wand of his youth held in one hand, and the other steadies himself on the surface of the desk. He bends at the waist, and without hesitation, places his face into the potion, as one would when viewing a memory.

He descends.

* * *

Dark eyes open to darkness. 

He feels no different at first. For a moment, he even dares to wonder if he did something wrong in the brewing process… 

…but then he realizes he is not looking at darkness, but rather into the night sky, as snowflakes fall. They do not touch him; not quite. Instead, they strike some sort of barricade and melt away.

He turns his head, looking to the side; the perspective of his vision is strange, as though he lies on his back and is looking straight up. And when he looks, he sees… 

…a rocky shore. Barren trees. Deep, undisturbed snow.

And he sees a boy.

There is something about him that draws the eye: and not only the strange coat the boy wears, shivering as though it’s not nearly enough to keep him comfortable. He is of a reasonable height, slender. He tromps through the snow and ice along an unforeseen path, or perhaps no path at all. He looks as though he is speaking, but if he is, Lord Voldemort cannot hear him. Cursing, potentially, from the pinched expression he wears on his face—angular, but less of a patrician bone structure, and more in the way of recent growth and not quite enough food.

Still, it is a look that he knows uncomfortably well.

The object of his attention stops walking, and Voldemort watches. Yet, his mind races. Why show him this at all? Was the potion not meant to help him perceive his _own_ noble purpose, attain immeasurable knowledge? What good does it do to show him this _boy—_

With reflexes rival to his own, the boy whips around, wand drawn. _A wizard, then._ Lord Voldemort watches with renewed interest. A determined grimace twists his face, teeth set; but he falters when he sees no one behind him. His brows pull together in a frown, drawing the eye upward, and pulling attention to a lightning-shaped scar.

His eyes, though. Even in the moonlight, they are the most peculiar shade of green.

The boy’s wand lowers slightly when he sees no adversary; his shoulders hunch. He chews at one raw red lip, then jams his wand into his back pocket, and is reaching for his collar—

 _Fool,_ Lord Voldemort thinks absently, and his brows draw together.

—and draws out a chain, glimmering gold, and then fiddles with a pendant—

 _No,_ Voldemort realizes. _Not a pendant._

A locket. _The_ locket.

His horcrux.

How? _How?_ How could this _possibly_ be when he _knows_ the enchantments he put his locket under—it is impenetrable, impossible to get to, and yet it is in the nervous, fidgeting hands of some unknown factor, a simple _boy—_ his only comfort is that the locket at least seems to be unhurt, _whole—_

Perhaps it is a warning. Voldemort’s mind races as he reassesses, changes his plans—he’ll have to be more careful; collect the locket, collect the others at once. Perhaps hiding the shorn-off pieces of his soul was not as successful a plot as he thought it would be. No matter. He can readjust. He can emerge better on the other side of this, undefeated. That is, of course, the purpose of this entire endeavor. A warning well-heeded, then.

But perhaps this potion creates an in-between; some unknowable place neither here nor there. For as Lord Voldemort makes a quiet, angry sound, that can be the only rational explanation why, at that very moment, the boy’s attention shifts.

Their eyes meet.

For a moment, the boy is still as a rabbit, not even daring to breathe as he finds himself caught in a predator’s gaze. _Don’t move,_ those little instincts seem to warn, _draw no attention to yourself, and perhaps you won’t end up in the belly of the snake._

Voldemort has always been bigger than those instincts. He learned very early that in order to survive, one has to _be_ the snake.

This boy, it seems, is not smart enough to heed nature’s warning. He approaches.

Frozen crystals cling to denim pants, the cut and color unfamiliar, but clearly soaked almost up to his knees. The shoes he wears are too caked in snow to discern style as the boy is drawn like a magnet to the rocky, ice-slick shore—

—Lord Voldemort, too, is drawn nearer. He does not know how, but he knows he steps forward, equal and opposite to the boy as he approaches. He has always been curious, he has always been _desperate_ for answers denied to him, and in his adulthood, he has never denied himself _anything,_ so why should he deny himself when he was _promised_ immeasurable knowledge—

—the boy walks onto the surface that they both look through. Breath comes to him in gasping clouds that Lord Voldemort cannot hear, but he hears his own, not quite _so_ labored, but labored all the same as the boy crouches low, fingers still curled possessively around the locket in his palm—

—he, himself steps forward one last time—

—and the boy reaches out with one shaking, wind-chapped hand, pulled mindlessly forward as though under the _Imperius,_ but his eyes are clear and bright and _Avada Kedavra_ green—

—and Lord Voldemort reaches back.

* * *

> **December ∞**

For a moment, their fingers are separated by a sheet of ice as cold and clear as glass.

For a moment, the ticking clock of time itself is silent. 

Then, it does as all glass and all silence eventually does. 

It shatters.

Time resumes.

* * *

> **December 1997**

There’s a flash like a strike of lightning. Harry has never heard of such a thing accompanying a snowstorm. There’s a crack, too—not thunder, but of ice as it fractures and he pitches headfirst into the frigid water.

What an idiot he must’ve been to walk out, not knowing if it was sturdy enough to hold him—but his heart had been racing, and the tiny metal heartbeat of the locket had been racing in time with his.

Because he’d seen—he _thought_ he’d seen—

He’s tangled in his clothes, feeling heavy and weighed down, and at the same time, his body feels like it’s on _fire_ from how cold he is; something around his neck gives a sharp _jerk_ like it’s trying to get away, much in the way one’s wand flies out of their hand when hit with _Expelliarmus,_ the way something moves without hesitation when called for by _Accio._ It yanks him forward, and Harry instinctively yanks back. His Seeker reflexes don’t let him give up on anything quite that easily, whether there’s an opponent nearby or not. This time, perhaps not.

Then he feels movement in the water near him.

His scar prickles, like the after-effects of an electric shock.

And Harry fights toward the surface with everything he’s got.

Once he gets his legs under him, he realizes the water isn’t deep, but that doesn’t seem to matter when every breath sears his lungs and he can’t stop his teeth from chattering. Still, his body is rushing with adrenaline; Harry claws his way back onto the ice, uncertain, at this moment, whether he can even feel his hands enough to know whether he’s cutting them open on the jagged pieces. It’s all just human instinct—he has no thoughts to spare for magic until he’s out of this bloody _loch,_ the taste of brackish water clinging to his teeth.

He hauls himself onto the ice and rolls free of the fracture; for a second, Harry lies on his back and gasps at the sky, the snowflakes that land on his skin. He shudders just as quickly, overcome with the cold, and then—

Another gasp, perhaps even more ferocious than his. “What in the bloody, blazing _seven hells—_?!”

Harry’s head whips toward the sound. _Impossible, it’s impossible,_ he thinks desperately.

Though seen only in memories, incorporeal, intangible; even soaked to the bone, he knows that face. He’s heard that voice. And those _eyes_ (though all too human) meet his and flash red in the moonlight, and he _knows._

* * *

Harry Potter is known for two things in life: his foolhardy Gryffindor bravery, and his increasingly astounding ability to escape Voldemort. Some might even consider those things one in the same.

He’s not particularly known for his mind. 

So he pays no thought as to why, exactly, Voldemort appears just as shocked as he is; why his (im)mortal enemy is submerged in a frozen-over loch that’s been charmed with every protection Hermione can think of; why there are no Death Eaters waiting in the wings to attack him; why his scar is not screaming with pain, as it often does whenever Voldemort is nearby; not even why Voldemort seems to have regained many of the youthful features he held in Dumbledore’s memories, up to and including his dark eyes, dark hair, and a nose that is rather well-suited to his face.

Harry Potter doesn’t know how or why he came to be in this predicament. Nor, at this moment, does he really care.

He thinks, _Fuck._

Shortly followed by, _We’re not ready._

Which leads to, _I won’t let him hurt Hermione._

In short: Harry springs to his feet, places himself solidly on solid ground, and attacks.

* * *

This is not what Lord Voldemort expected of his evening.

What he _did_ expect: a vision. An hour of his time eaten up, maybe two; at worst, he may have lost the night and woken up in the morning, irrevocably more informed in the comings and goings of the future than he is finding himself right now. 

His eyes widen. A nonverbal spell launches him out of the water, and he lands lightly on his feet; he twirls out of the way of a well-timed and well-placed _Stupefy,_ and does not dignify the cold with a shiver. His wand is still in his free hand, and he pulls the water from his clothes and hair and streams it into a whip, which he directs at one of the boy’s legs. Perhaps just being dry is not as effective as a warming charm, but it’ll do for now—but he grits his teeth as the boy dodges out of his grasp.

There’s no wariness in that gaze. Only hatred that’s strong enough to kill as the boy takes measured steps backward through the snow, soaked to the bone, and isn’t that _interesting?_ He doesn’t falter, even as his teeth chatter.

Lord Voldemort finds himself… _intrigued._

The locket seems to twitch against a slender chest. In the instant the boy’s eyes dart downward, Voldemort attacks again.

Intrigued, yes. But not intrigued enough to stop.

 _“Confringo!”_ his opponent yells, and Voldemort’s water whip evaporates into vapor. Clever—or good luck, perhaps. Those eyes narrow as he advances, and the dark-wood wand is pointed toward the ground. _“Bombarda!”_

It doesn’t have the desired effect; the boy is distracted, too focused on Voldemort rather than the true target of his spell. The snow, already loose and powdery, kicks up into a glittering cloud—but his way forward is otherwise unimpeded. 

_Stupefy!_ he commands silently; red light flashes by the boy’s face as he launches himself out of the way. The landing is far from graceful. And, Lord Voldemort notices, he is still soaking wet. In fact, pieces of that dark, disheveled hair are starting to freeze. Yet nothing slows down the rebuttal to his own advance. _Petrificus totalus!_

The boy dodges again. Voldemort has to acknowledge his opponent’s excellent reflexes as he scrambles back to his feet with haste; stumbles a bit as he backs up, sparing only the barest glance over his shoulder as he retreats toward the trees. He does not, Voldemort notices, dare to turn his back. At least in that, he has some sense. 

And then—

“What’s wrong?” the boy taunts—or, rather, his voice is that of a young man. There’s a glint of something on his wrist; a battered watch that has seen better days. Voldemort reassesses these few clues. Seventeen, then. Likely turned this year. Skinny, though. Mouthy, too. “No killing curse tonight?”

Voldemort pauses for a fraction of a second. It’s not an accusation one would make of a stranger. To accuse one of hurling Unforgivables at the earliest opportunity is an _especially_ bold assumption for one who attacked first. Those words imply familiarity. Familiar enough with Lord Voldemort to know that _Avada Kedavra_ is an established resident in his magical repertoire. 

Those eyes are the color of that very same curse. They _know_ him.

His eyes narrow in return, and lock on the locket. How is the boy surviving the protective enchantments? How is he—

“Doesn’t matter, though,” he bites out past his chattering teeth. His gaze blazes with resolve. “I’ll fight ‘til the end. You won’t take me alive.”

…he knows, and _expects_ to be known.

Lord Voldemort looks up, looks at the boy’s face. _Really_ looks, but nothing about him is familiar. He’s no former classmate or passing acquaintance. No matter what situation he stepped into, he’s certain he would _know_ anyone bold enough to speak to him this way.

In a world where every element bends to his whim, this boy is an unknown—if necessary, his half-life will be bright but short. Voldemort himself will see to that.

But more than anything, he does not want to snuff out that light. He wants to capture it. Study it. Collect it.

He wants his answers, and he _will_ get them.

“Yes, I will,” he hisses back, and the boy goes pale; pale, but still fighting. His jaw sets, tense and seemingly prepared to do exactly as he says: go down fighting. Already, he has twice the spine of most adversaries Voldemort has gone toe-to-toe with, and there are not many of _those_ who even _stood_ long enough to make a stand. “And when I do, you’re going to tell me who gave you that trinket.”

“Who _gave_ me—?” The boy chances a look down again, almost looking _confused;_ he curses once, loudly, when Voldemort sends a _Diffindo_ that goes wide, catches his outer arm instead of the chain around his neck. It slices through the sleeve like a razor-thin wire, more than enough to stain the fabric within seconds as his heart continues to pound. The boy touches his arm. When his fingers draw back bloody, though, his expression darkens to one of a terrible storm weighing heavily on the horizon. Whoever this young man is, Lord Voldemort knows he possesses the will to retaliate as swiftly and powerfully as the lightning scar that marks his brow: a natural disaster in motion, if only the right moment should strike. “No one _gave_ it to me. I _took_ it, you… ” he breathes, and trails off before he can find a word that is suitably heartfelt with hatred. When he finishes the thought, though, it’s not for lack of vehemence. “And we _both_ know what it cost.”

 _Do we?_ Lord Voldemort almost wants to demand. However, he is starting to think they both, indeed, _might._

His temper gets the better of him at the thought; he’ll admit that. It’s not especially smart to show his cards when his adversary clearly knows he’s in possession of the upper hand. It’s dangerous to even allow him to know the _degree_ of defeat. However, Voldemort has always lacked a bit of impulse control around his actions. One synapse that fires off-time from the others, a half-second too early; it finishes thoughts before they leave lips, jumps to conclusions before a sentence reaches its natural end. 

“Who are _you_ to know what it cost?” He lashes out with his wand, and the snow around the boy’s ankles solidifies into ice. He stalks forward, just as the boy topples over backward, unable to take a step in retreat, and his wand tumbles out of his hand. “Hm? _Boy?”_ Voldemort taunts, and stands over him, kicks the wand away; feels his chest heave with breath that stings his lungs; shakes his head just once to get his fringe from his eyes. His lip curls in demanding derision, and he draws himself to his full height. His wand is held fast on his opponent, sprawled in the snow, the locket gleaming around his neck in all its golden glory. Another wave of fury threatens to rise up and consume him; he battles it down. Answers. He needs answers. Starting with this one. “Who are you?”

In this short time opposite his new foe, he has come to expect defiance. 

What he doesn’t expect is the absolutely _dumbfounded_ look he receives in return.

He waits a moment. Then a moment more. When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, he grits his teeth; the boy yelps in pain as the magic responds to his ire, and the ice twists and tightens around his ankles. “It’s a simple enough question, is it not? Who _are_ you? What is your name? How and _where_ did you get that _locket?”_

“The locket?” The boy murmurs, as though dazed. He can barely tear his eyes away; of course, Voldemort can barely take _his_ eyes off _him,_ strange little impossibility that he is. Voldemort bends down, intent to snatch it from around the boy’s neck. 

And then those eyes widen as though in realization. “The _locket—!”_

Wandless, wordless, the ice around his feet cracks and explodes.

It’s a split-second distraction, but it’s all the boy needs to _launch_ himself in the direction of his wand and snatch it up; surprising enough that Voldemort shields his face with his hand, and feels the irritation prickle through his eyes, red creeping into his vision. His patience is running thin. 

He takes aim. So does the boy.

_“Imperio!”_

_“Sectumsempra!”_

But the spells do not pass each other in midair as Voldemort expects; they collide, and the world ignites in gold.

Lord Voldemort has now possessed his yew wand for more than twice the number of years he lived without it. He knows its properties well; could pick it out blindfolded or in the dark from a host of others, by the feel of it in his hand alone.

It has _never_ done anything like this. 

The wood _burns_ but does not burn, and shakes so severely that his bones seem to rattle, and yet it does not fly from his hand; in the middle of the golden thread that connects him to the boy glows a little golden light. From it, threads spawn. They create a dome above them, around them, that flickers and glimmers, lights up the barren trees, illuminates the snow on the ground, the flakes in the air, until they glow like lightning bugs.

He has never encountered anything like this. Never _read_ of anything like this. What _is_ this?

_Who is he?_

In that moment, the boy’s eyes are wide. Lord Voldemort sees realization. Recognition. True fear. Despair. For just a second, his eyes dart somewhere away—they follow the path the boy had taken, which disappears into the woods from a destination unknown.

Just for a second.

“No,” he whispers, and when Voldemort looks at him again, the boy is focused. And then his face twists with blazing determination. “It _is_ you.”

And then he wrenches his wand away, and the thread breaks; the dome dispels into mist; the boy _runs._

At him. _Into_ him.

He is solid, unpleasantly wet, and freezing cold. But Lord Voldemort does not notice these things, for the boy seizes his bare wrist and the collar of his shirt, as though he means to grapple him down with his inferior size and strength. 

Their skin sparks with sensation where it makes contact.

Perhaps it is the surprise of the motion that allows the boy to manage it—he swings them around in a short, sharp half-turn, and with a _crack,_ they Disapparate.


	2. 1:2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely response to last chapter! It was so much more than I could have hoped for when stepping into a new fandom for the first time. Thank you for every comment, kudos, and bookmark. Every single one helps me get through the day.
> 
> As always, you can find me over on Tumblr ([@maydei](https://maydei.tumblr.com/)) and Twitter ([@maydaymaydei](https://twitter.com/maydaymaydei))! ♥

It’s not unlike the first time he cast the Patronus Charm. Harry knows he’s done it once, and so he can do it again.

It doesn’t make the sensation of being squeezed through a rubber tube any more pleasant; in fact, the knowledge of his _company_ may make it worse. 

Because it’s _not_ just a figment of the locket. There’s no way to replicate the _Priori Incantatem_ , and as Voldemort launched spells at him, he should have known better, but he’s operating on instinct and half a prayer. He doesn’t have high hopes, just the desire to survive. It’s not like he’s faced down a horcrux since his second year, either—one that Tom Riddle had created at sixteen, and _that_ was bad enough. Who _knows_ what the locket could be capable of?

So, it’s not his fault for making assumptions. As this evening has proven, there’s no formula to predict what Voldemort will do next, no notes scribbled in the margins. Harry can only focus on himself. Each heartbeat: still alive. Each breath: still alive. Another second to live. Another second to _think._

The disconcerting sensation of Apparition ends; Harry’s feet hit the pavement outside the familiar run-down playground off Magnolia Road, a haunting memory of days that were somehow both better than his life recently, and also so much worse. Of _course_ they ended up here. Where else could Harry go? With the Dursleys gone from Little Whinging, surely they’re not in danger, right? Even with the protections broken? Are they even close enough for Voldemort to _know_ where, exactly, Harry had grown up?

 _But that’s not going to matter if I die here, will it?_ Harry thinks, and shoves Voldemort away from him as hard as he can. The man makes an undignified grunt as he stumbles back a step.

He got Voldemort away from Hermione. She’s out of immediate danger.

Now to get away from Voldemort, himself.

Already, exhaustion is pressing in on him; he’s barely ever Apparated once, let alone twice in a row, but he has to try. (He takes a step and staggers.) The alternative—

A hand snaps out and seizes him around the wrist, hard enough that the bones grind together, and Harry hisses in pain.

“I think not,” that voice snarls, low and cold, and Harry’s heart gives a traitorous lurch at the thought of the torture that will be coming to him. “What was it you said—that I wouldn’t take you alive? Where is that confidence now?”

If he weren’t almost certainly about to be murdered, Harry would have words about the Dark Lord’s mocking tone, and how he could do without it. However, at that moment, it’s not Voldemort’s tone that stops him short, but rather a tightening tether around his throat, and an eerie, sibilant _hiss._

The golden locket wraps around Harry’s neck until he can’t breathe, and between the lack of oxygen, his pounding heart, and his swimming head, he goes down hard.

For one moment, _just_ a moment, Voldemort stands above him and looks absolutely baffled.

Harry’s hands are so cold that they feel like they’re on fire; his fingers are furious red, nearly purple as he claws at the chain and attempts to worm something, _anything_ underneath the ligature that’s slowly strangling him. He hears it hissing through the pounding in his ears. 

_“Kill… unworthy… keep safe… for Master… ”_

Harry thinks, somewhat hysterically, that dying to Voldemort’s _horcrux_ instead of the man himself is somewhat humiliating after all the trouble he’s been through. His vision fizzes with black at the edges; if nothing else, if this is his last defiant act, then surely he can _glare_ at Voldemort until the life leaves his body. 

It almost doesn’t seem right—that at the end, the monster should look like a man.

Harry’s mind swims, dizzy and off-balance. His fingers falter as the locket, impossibly, tightens further. His lashes flutter. His heart pounds in his ears, ringing so loudly that it feels like his eardrums will burst. Yet, despite all that, he can hear the demand as clearly now in his memory as when the man had spoken it aloud just minutes ago.

_Who are you?_

What has he done to himself now, Harry wonders, that at the moment of his greatest enemy’s demise, Voldemort doesn’t even recognize him?

His body heaves; he feels nearly sick with nausea and pain. He wants to retch but can’t. His hands weaken, and when his head falls back in overwhelmed defeat, it somehow feels like he’s being pulled up. Like the world is going slightly sideways.

 _“Sssssh, sweet…”_ whispers a voice that is alarmingly close; Harry’s eyes crack open and he finds himself nearly nose-to-nose with that face—

 _Ha,_ he thinks deliriously, _he has a nose again._

—and though there is something _off_ about him, something _wrong,_ he is far from the serpentine monster of his nightmares: that bone-white skin, spidery hands, those split pupils and red irises. _This_ Voldemort is undeniably changed… or rather, restored, but not quite whole. Like a wax model of himself, artificially rendered, unhealthily slender and bony, but as unmistakable as he’d been in every memory Dumbledore showed him last year. Strangely frozen, strangely young, a caricature of what he’d been at his prime.

Tom Riddle’s dark eyes are rapt on his face, and then wander down. Sharpen with intent as he reaches forward, and his fingers brush Harry’s neck, a blazing heat to the hands that brush along his own.

 _“Sssssh,”_ he croons softly to the locket. _“You’re safe. I am here. Release him.”_

_“A ssssspeaker….”_

Harry lurches slightly; realizes, in a deeply uncomfortable and unpleasant way, that Voldemort has him propped up in his arms, head lolling onto his shoulder. He’s entirely helpless. Harry tries to make a sound, but the locket coils tighter. He gags, a futile motion, and his head feels like it’s going to explode, but in an entirely different way than the headaches Voldemort’s presence usually brings.

 _“You must let him go,”_ Voldemort says again, more firmly. _“You will not come to harm. Now, do as I say.”_

_“Master…”_

_“I said_ **_release him._ ** _”_

The locket uncoils like a snake releasing its prey; Harry feels slender fingers at the nape of his neck, even as he coughs and sputters for breath—has only a moment to catch the flash of distaste on Voldemort’s face, so close to his own, but he doesn’t reel away quite yet, because _he_ is still reaching for—

Stars explode in Harry’s vision, threaten to overtake him, but Harry is sure of one thing only. He hears a quiet _click_ and feels Voldemort start to pull away from him, feels the chain of the locket drag away, but catches one pale wrist in his shaking, frozen fingers.

He brokenly breathes, “I’m not giving it back.”

He wonders what he looks like, here and now; if his face is as flushed as his hands, if the vessels in his eyes are as bloody as Tom Riddle’s had been the night he returned to ask for the teaching post at Hogwarts. Harry wonders what he sees when those eyes widen, then narrow; when moonlight catches his irises and bleeds them a deep, burgundy red. “It nearly strangled you to death.”

“I don’t care,” Harry wheezes, and thinks that he may, in fact, care. He doesn’t feel much like putting it on again anytime soon. However, he knows that if he lets the locket go, he will never reclaim it again. If Voldemort takes it from him now, it’ll surely be gone forever. 

He tries to take a breath; coughs on the air. But the thought is in his mind, and it’s determined to find its way out his mouth as he tugs at the chain. “You didn’t want it,” he grits out. “You don’t even know what it’s _worth.”_

Voldemort’s eyes narrow; rage flickers, and he opens his mouth and flashes straight, white teeth in a vicious snarl—

“To do this to yourself,” Harry continues, and his fingers tighten until his knuckles go white. Voldemort stops. Stares. “You don’t even know what you’ve done. You don’t deserve it, and I’m not giving it back. You’ll have to kill me.”

All at once, the tension releases; Harry’s hand, and the locket within it, hits his chest as Voldemort releases his grip as though burned. He looks at Harry like he’s something dangerous. Something disgusting, and yet, terribly, horrifyingly interesting. 

Harry withdraws at the same time he feels movement; nearly gags again as Voldemort unceremoniously dumps him onto the ground. Stands. Towers above Harry, who shivers on frost-frozen grass. He’s tall and pale and dressed all in black—pressed slacks, a button-down shirt. He looks prepared for an evening in, rather than ambushing Harry in the woods. But he doesn’t seem to be paying the cold any mind as he stares down, a bright and terribly familiar light in his eyes. It’s that same bestial gleam, that same wild emotion that is not quite joy, and he breathes, “You know what it is.”

Harry’s hand curls into a fist. He holds himself with as much pride as he can manage on his hands and knees as he steadies himself, and slowly sits back on his haunches. He reaches into his shirt with his free hand, still gulping for breath, perhaps with more drama than strictly necessary—anything to stretch this moment just enough to gain the upper hand.

Just one last moment, underestimated. Just one more folly. Just one.

He relies on what he knows of Tom Riddle. That he has a one-track mind. That he’ll keep his eyes on his horcrux in Harry’s grip, and not the fingers plucking at the drawstring of the pouch tucked inside his collar.

That he won’t realize his mistake until far too late.

The drawstring unravels. With his index finger, Harry wiggles it open as he feigns exhaustion, and presses the back of his hand against his abraded skin, his pounding pulse, like he’s seeking to count the beats of his heart. 

Then, quick as a Seeker, quick as a serpent, he pulls the mokeskin pouch out from his shirt, and jams the locket inside. He has the drawstring closed at the same moment that Voldemort’s palm closes around his throat. The point of his wand swiftly follows.

It’s a rush. Getting one over on Voldemort, no matter how ill-advised, how short-lived, how disastrous, how _dangerous,_ is always a rush.

“Yeah,” Harry laughs recklessly, breathlessly (for that is the only justification he can think of; oxygen starvation to his brain), and leans _in_ to the grip that doesn’t _quite_ cut off his breath again, doesn’t _quite_ stifle his voice. After all, he _knows_ how much the man standing above him wants to hear the words, “I know what it is.”

He bares his teeth at Harry, and— _there._ Beneath the anger, the barest glimmer of fear.

He _should_ be afraid. He _should_ be.

And yet—

It takes the wind out of Harry’s sails. His vicious smile dies, and seeing that, Voldemort pauses. His own rage reduces from a boil to a simmer, to watchful wariness. He does not, Harry notices, remove the point of his wand from Harry’s neck.

But his eyes do lift. To Harry’s forehead, with a frown of consternation, and then… 

Voldemort freezes. His fingers flex; Harry hears him temper his inhale before it can be anything as uncouth as a gasp. When he looks up, those eyes are looking over his shoulder—on the plain, boring muggle street across the way, the cars parked outside houses. Nothing special, but clearly not magical. 

But when he speaks, it’s as though Harry has committed some terrible sin. “Where have you brought us?”

Harry pulls; after a moment, Voldemort relents, though he keeps his wand trained on Harry. There’s something in his face, now. Something like… “Surrey,” Harry answers dismissively. 

Voldemort’s lip curls. His wand arm stiffens, and the tip of it presses against Harry’s throat. It sparks, and Harry twitches, hisses. _What—?!_ “Liar,” he breathes. “I asked _where_ have you _brought us?”_

“Ow!” Harry snaps, and jerks his head away. He glares balefully up at the Dark Lord. “What reason do I have to lie? It’s not as though Surrey is particularly interesting. You knew I lived somewhere around here, anyway.”

He gets an odd look at that—but Voldemort clearly decides there are more pressing matters at hand. His lips press together into a thin line; his nostrils flare. He finds Harry’s wand in the grass and bends at the waist; before Harry can stop him, he scoops it up into his opposite palm. He keeps Harry trained under his own. The moonlight highlights the gaunt shadows in the hollows of his cheeks; he really does look unwell, Harry decides. Human, sure, _maybe._ But not healthy. 

Voldemort sniffs haughtily and looks down his nose at Harry. “Do you think I’m an idiot? The rowhouses look the same, but the automobiles are nothing alike. They can’t have changed much since I was out earlier this evening.”

“Doing what, torturing muggles?” Harry snaps back. 

Voldemort’s eyes narrow to slits. “You seem to think you know an awful lot about me, _boy.”_

Harry stares at him, uncomprehending. _“Everyone_ knows that.”

Voldemort cocks his head with an almost academic curiosity. He blinks. Then his gaze grows suspicious. Considering. “Knows what, exactly?”

Harry’s brows draw together. If he weren’t talking to the bloody Dark Lord, he might even think about asking what the _hell_ the man is on about. Instead, he snaps, “Oh, I dunno, that you’re a murderer? That you torture muggles for fun? That the Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry? You’ve single-handedly plunged us into a Second Wizarding War? That no one, _nowhere_ , is safe?” 

Harry looks up the deserted road, the empty playground of his childhood. How ironic, really, that in all of Dudley’s years of _Harry Hunting,_ he’s ended up here, _hunted_ by the Dark Lord. Maybe he’ll even die here. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

“You’re Voldemort,” Harry spits. “Killing is what you _do._ And I’m the proof of it, aren’t I?”

He says it. He means it.

And yet, when his attention returns to Voldemort, it is not to the anticipated maniacal smugness, but rather, a blank stare and complete silence.

A muscle twitches in his jaw. A slight motion—almost a flinch, but Voldemort catches himself before his head fully turns. Still, his eyes dart from Harry to the cars across the road. They return to him again.

Back to his forehead.

And then to his eyes.

“You said you’ve brought us to Surrey,” Voldemort says, and his voice is flat.

Harry, not liking the tone of his voice, curls his hands atop his knees. He clenches his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering. Swallows, against the aching soreness in his bruised throat. He nods, just a little. Just once.

That same muscle in Voldemort’s jaw jumps again. This time, though, his eyes don’t wander. “What year?”

Perhaps it’s the shock of the question that makes Harry answer it. But he answers. “1997.” A breath; he tears his eyes away as Voldemort inhales with him in time, and glances around. Though the late hour means all windows are dark in the houses across the way, he spots the shadow of a tree inside a living room. “December, I think.”

“You _think.”_ It’s not said as a question. Rather, with flat consideration as their eyes meet again, and Harry swallows. He sags forward, overwhelmed and exhausted at even the _suggestion—_ can nothing ever be normal for him? Nothing at all?—just as he hears that chilling whisper, _“Nothing made more clear to me my noble purpose…”_

But that explains some things—if there’s time travel involved, rather. Why Voldemort doesn’t know him. Why he looks the way he does. That blank-faced reaction to Harry’s recitation of his _noble_ deeds (Harry could nearly sneer), if he hasn’t even _done_ them yet.

So that leaves a question that begs answer. Harry looks up. “When—?”

But in the next moment, a series of loud _cracks_ rend the air, and six figures appear—three on each end of the street, converging quickly.

“Oh, no,” Harry whispers. Voldemort’s eyes snap to him. They narrow in consideration, but Harry doesn’t give him time to ask. “Give me my wand,” he hisses. “If you ever want your horcrux back. If you ever want me to answer your questions, _help me.”_

“Why should I?” Voldemort breathes right back, a lethal light in his eyes. “I assume these _fine people_ approaching aren’t your friends. Neither am I.”

“Oi! You lot!”

“You better not run, y’hear? We’ve got license t’kill!”

“If you’re Tom Riddle,” Harry says softly, and ignores the furious hiss that escapes between those perfect teeth, the flash of red in his dark eyes, “and if _he_ finds out _you’re_ here? You’re dead.” 

In that moment, a sudden truth strikes Harry, cold and clear between the eyes. 

He touches the pouch around his neck. His lips curl in a humorless smile. 

“This, that I’ve got in here? It’s not _yours._ It’s _his._ And no one can get it out but me. Which means that _I’m_ of use to him… but _you’re_ not.”

Riddle’s pupils contract. This time, when Harry sees his fear, he isn’t entertained by it, or sickened by it. He echoes it. Because his fate, his _life,_ rests in the hands of the man across from him, who he _knows_ would sell him out in a second if he thought it would benefit him.

 _But,_ Harry thinks, _not if his life is at stake. He’ll kill me to save himself—but he’ll_ **_save_ ** _me to save himself, too._

Tom Riddle seems to consider several things very quickly as the rugged, swaggering wizards approach them down Magnolia Road with no care at all for whether any muggle bothers to look out their window. 

This is it. Now or never.

Their eyes meet. 

Tom bares his teeth.

Then he spins Harry’s holly wand in his palm and holds it out; at the same time, he catches Harry’s outstretched hand in his own, and wrenches him to his feet. He steadies Harry when he wobbles. In another half a second, with a flick of his wand, he wicks the water from Harry’s clothes and casts it away, into the frozen grass. Another second: Harry’s headache does not disappear, but it eases. He breathes a little easier, too.

Tom’s knees bend with casual, languid ease. He flashes a fearsome smile. “Do try to keep up, then, won’t you? I’m not done with you yet, thief.”

“Thief?” Harry murmurs in an ironic reply. “That’s rich coming from _you,_ isn’t it?”

Dark eyes widen, then narrow with intrigued pleasure as they turn from each other, redirect their focus to their advancing mutual adversaries. “Perhaps.”

“Oi!” One of the wizards calls again as he gets closer—oddly enough, as Harry squints at the man, he doesn’t seem to be wearing Death Eater robes. It off-balances him slightly. _What’s going on here?_ “Which of you two punks thought you’d say the Dark Lord’s name?”

“Yeah—fess up, and we won’t hurt you… much…”

“Long as you’re not on the list, anyway—”

But Harry recognizes one of them. And he recognizes the cut of those robes, too. The drawling voice as he rasps, “Can’t you idiots see? One of ‘em’s well past school age… well, no matter… any Mudblood’s worth a reward…”

Riddle’s chin lifts in an unsettlingly accurate representation of Malfoy’s most elitist pureblood sneer. “ _Mudbloods?_ ”

Harry jolts his elbow back slightly; he catches Riddle in the side, which the man hides below his offended hiss. He tries to be subtle as he slips his glasses off, shakes his fringe into his eyes to cover the scar. Without Ron and Hermione, maybe he’ll even stand a chance of evading Fenrir Greyback as he paces before them.

He doesn’t know what to say, though—and what _should_ he say? Should he instigate, when he’s as good as blind? Sure, he could see shapes in the daytime, _maybe,_ but at night… but his glasses are so recognizable… 

Perhaps Riddle realizes the same, for he says, “Not at all. Rather, we prefer to look forward to the day Our Lord’s name will be venerated by the loyal, rather than used to hunt filth and blood traitors.” He sniffs, an arrogant thing; Merlin, but he sounds so much like a Death Eater that Harry would gladly throw a punch, even blind.

Greyback makes a slow, considering noise. “That’s a lot of fancy words… though you don’t seem to have proper robes on, _purebloods…_ ”

“I was called out of my home to pick up my dear cousin,” Riddle drawls, and nudges Harry none-too-gently with his elbow right back. Harry hisses. “Who just got his Apparition license— _clearly_ due to the family’s gold, rather than talent…” His voice drips with thinly-veiled disapproval. “Surely you’ve done the same for family… unless, of course, you haven’t…”

_Merlin._

“Wha’s your name, then?” one of them asks. _“Purebloods,_ my arse…”

“Gaunt,” Harry speaks up, clearly and confidently, and is vindicated when Riddle stiffens beside him. “My cousin’s Marvolo. I’m—” here, Harry panics. Oh, where’s Hermione when he needs her?

“—Cadmus,” Riddle finishes lowly, then under his breath for the benefit of their accusers, “Cad, indeed.”

Snickers meet them; also, the sound of rustling parchment as the thugs go through their so-called list. For a minute. Then, for another. 

“Well,” one says with reluctant slowness, “They’re not on the list of truants—and Gaunt’s on the list, too, Greyback. Of pureblood families, I mean.”

“I know what you meant, _fool,”_ Greyback growls. He continues to pace in a slow circle around them. Harry does his best not to stiffen, not to twitch, at the low, drawn-out growl; not to tremble with his suppressed rage… this was the man who had ruined Lupin’s life when he was only a child, subjugated him to a life of being outcast, ostracized…

“Well?” says Riddle at long last, sounding bored as can be. “Can I take the little idiot home now?”

Silence. One of the thugs shrugs. Another makes a considering sound. For a moment, it almost seems like they’ll be let go—

“Not so fast,” Greyback says suddenly, and Harry hears a rustle—but _hears_ Riddle’s muffled grunt as he’s presumably grabbed. He stiffens, hand flexing at his side; Riddle jostles and knocks him with _his_ elbow, and Harry suppresses a wince. That’s revenge, clearly. And a sign.

_Wait._

“What, then?” 

“I want to see your Mark,” Greyback declares boldly. “If what you say is true, and you’re loyal to the Dark Lord… pureblood… show me the Dark Mark, then.”

A twitch. Harry bites back a sneer; he knows Riddle is _less_ than pleased that his life’s secrets are such _common knowledge._

 _Destroys the mystique, doesn’t it, Riddle?_

Riddle shuffles beside him, jostles. “Don’t _touch_ me, _werewolf,”_ he spits. “How _dare_ you demand anything of me—”

Suddenly, Harry has an idea. “S’alright, Marvolo,” he replies. Then, squinting in what he hopes is a thoughtful-type expression toward the goons in front of him, he says as if imparting a great secret, “My cousin’s in the Wizengamot. The Dark Lord thought it was better not to mark him yet. But you can see mine.”

He doesn’t have to be able to _see_ Riddle to sense the shocked silence. 

“Oh?” Greyback breathes. He rounds Harry again.

Harry’s free hand tucks into his pockets. Finds his glasses. Pinches the nosepiece.

“Then let’s see it, boy.”

Harry takes a breath. His other hand flexes again on his wand, steeling himself. Beside him, he feels Riddle’s body tense and release, ready to lunge.

Slowly at first, Harry takes his hand from his pocket and lifts it toward his face, as though to watch as he adjusts his sleeve—

—then he jams his glasses onto his face, shakes his hair out of his eyes, and lashes out with his wand arm. Flicks upward, and silently commands, _Levicorpus!_

One of the thugs howls as Harry hauls him upside down; beside him, Riddle springs into action.

Then, the inevitable.

“It’s Potter!” One of them roars. “Get him!”

He and Riddle stand back-to-back, firing fast and aiming well. They’re more practiced duelists than their opponents, and much lighter on their feet; and as Harry’s brain locks in on the fight at hand, he becomes aware of certain things he’s never dealt with before: the presence of someone at his back that he recognizes. The sound of breath, sharp inhales and measured exhales in time with Riddle’s nonverbal casting. There’s a frisson of sensation across his skin that is not unlike the feel of ozone before a thunderstrike. Riddle steps to the right, and Harry steps to the right, a clockwise orbit. The grass crunches beneath their feet, the crisp sound a harmonic counterpart to the dull _thud_ of bodies hitting the ground.

The scuffle lasts only a minute, _maybe_ two, before all of their opponents fall unconscious; by stunning spell or more brutal means. One of them was blasted clear across the street and struck the lamp post on the other side. He’ll probably need the Healers at St. Mungo’s—if he’s _lucky._

Harry’s distracted by the thought, and the wild fight-or-flight that’s still running in his veins. This time, he fought. This time, he won. And it feels _good._

So he doesn’t notice at once Riddle’s eyes are still narrowed, honed in on the attack as he turns rounds on Harry, and reaches out with his free hand to seize him by the collar. Though, admittedly, at this point, Harry has gotten rather less intimidated by the whole affair.

After all, he knows the truth, now. Tom Riddle, this may be—but _Voldemort,_ he is not.

Not quite, anyway.

 _“How did you learn that name?”_ He demands.

Harry shrugs him off, and is almost surprised when Riddle lets him go; instead, he looks down, feeling moderately less magnanimous than he usually does. He brings his heel down on three wands in a row before the feeling of bitter aggression fades. “It’s my business to know your business. Or haven’t you forgotten?”

“Clearly not,” Riddle replies coldly, “…Potter.”

A stroke of mean-spiritedness strikes him, riding the coattails of his and Riddle’s synchronicity. In these past few months with Hermione… he had almost forgotten. Even with the tent, and the cold, and the hunger. He had almost forgotten he wasn’t just roughing it with his friends. Had almost _forgotten_ that he’s Undesirable Number One. That there’s a bounty on his head, dead or alive—because of this man, one version or another.

“It’s not as much of a win as you think it is,” Harry hisses back, then. “The whole _world_ knows my name, because of you.”

“Do they?” he replies, a hint of mockery to the tone. Almost as if he expects Harry to be exaggerating.

Except that he’s not. 

“I know they do.” His answer is flat. And for a moment, he meets the dead-on stare of those eyes. Dark. Starving.

He turns away—and instead, looks down to the unconscious face of Fenrir Greyback. Harry has never considered cursing a fallen opponent before. He thinks about it now. Instead, he brings his foot down on yet another wand. Once. Twice. And narrowly convinces himself not to emulate Draco Malfoy any further and to bring his heel down on Greyback’s nose.

He turns his back on the fallen werewolf, unarmed but overall unharmed, and casts Riddle a sidelong look in the darkness. Harry can’t bring Voldemort back to Hermione and endanger her further, no matter _how_ he got here. She’s smart; she’ll figure something else out—and after all, _anything_ else is probably safer than—than being with—than _staying_ with—

Harry swallows hard. He swallows down some of the anxiety at the thought of being on his own. Truly on his own.

“If everyone knows who you are, then we can’t stay here.” Riddle says.

 _I know,_ Harry thinks. He can’t bear to say it. Instead, he admits something far more revealing. It’s a worse reveal yet when his voice breaks. “I have nowhere else to go.”

The man _tsks_ under his breath. “Everyone has _somewhere_ else to go.”

 _Bitterness, thy name is Riddle._ “I don’t,” Harry says simply. “Neither do you.”

A moment. Then, a hissed intake of breath, and the young Dark Lord’s arm snaps out, hauls Harry close by the string of his mokeskin pouch, wand pressed to his sternum in threat. Harry relishes the realization on his face a moment later when Riddle feels its twin jabbed painfully and firmly between his ribs.

He laughs. What can he do but laugh? No more Ron, no more Hermione, no more place in the world for the Boy Who Lived and Lived and Lived—

More _cracks_ and _pops_ as others Apparate in. It’s sure to be the Ministry investigating the duel that just happened in a muggle neighborhood, or maybe it’s the Death Eaters, if they’re not one and the same by now… 

Riddle seems unbothered. He keeps his hold on Harry, and his wand on his companion, as he turns to walk them away, side-by-side. Harry, too, keeps his wand on Voldemort. Perhaps they’ll disappear into the night; two unknown men in some unknown muggle town. The thought makes Harry want to laugh. He doesn’t.

“Potter,” Riddle mutters to himself. He scoffs lightly. “Figures.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. Riddle has, of course, zeroed in on the weak spot of his heritage in barely a second. Dumbledore said he’d always been good at that.

Bastard.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry hisses under his breath, and digs his wand in a little deeper, if only to remind Riddle that he is _not_ complicit, and he is most _certainly_ a threat.

In the corner of their eyes, they look at each other. They bare their teeth in humorless grins. They are not cousins, but if you’d asked any stranger seeing two tall, dark-haired men walking together, they never could have told you so by looking at them.

“I should’ve known that you’re a Gryffindor,” Riddle says, and with a final _crack,_ they’re gone once more.


	3. 1:3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos on the last chapter!! ♥ ♥
> 
> For those of you who have asked about an update schedule—I'm trying for weekly, _try_ being the key word. However, for those of you who haven't been on one of my fic journeys with me before, I have a ~super duper~ demanding job, and I'm not always able to get updates done on time, in which case I'll do my best to be on a biweekly schedule. If I know to expect this in advance, I'll usually warn in the chapter's notes ahead of time. 
> 
> Twitter is probably the best place to get in touch with me regarding updates nowadays if you have questions, but you can reach me on Tumblr, too! ♥ Thank you all, and enjoy.... *jazz hands* the exposé into _the plot._

  
  
When their feet hit the solid ground, Harry’s head continues spinning a moment longer. Maybe it’s the exertion, the stress, the earlier strangulation—maybe it’s the cold that still pierces him to his marrow, even now. 

But Voldemort at any age needs no advantage to win a fight; so when given one, there’s no question as to whether or not he triumphs. Before Harry can protest, his arm is twisted around behind his back, and his wand is firmly held in the palm of his enemy. Riddle’s wand, however, digs painfully between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t need to be told so to be familiar with that feeling.

“Don’t even try to run,” Riddle breathes just as Harry, indeed, was thinking about trying. “Unlike you, I have no compunctions about cursing an opponent with his back turned, wand in-hand or not. You’re not getting away.”

He remembers being told to pick his battles, once—by Hermione, probably, if the stern tone of voice that lives in his mind is any indication. Picking a fight while unarmed does seem like unfavorable odds. He’ll just have to wait. So with that in mind, Harry takes a breath and lets it out.

Then he looks up.

Both he and Riddle freeze.

Harry recognizes where they have landed. He’s seen it more times than he can count in his dreams. It looks much the same as he remembers it; dilapidated and old, fallen terribly into disrepair. In an absent sort of way, he wonders what Aunt Petunia would think of Riddle Manor as it is today. Though, truth be told, Harry sometimes thinks Aunt Petunia is so disagreeable that she could’ve found fault with the old manor house even at the height of its splendor.

But that thought gets pushed to the wayside—immediately, Harry’s reflexes take its place. For this place was once Voldemort’s headquarters of sorts, and danger could lurk around any turn.

No, he doesn’t try to run, but Riddle must sense the shift all the same. “You know where we are?”

 _“Of course_ I know where we are,” Harry whispers. He ignores the memories of statues, of screams, of dark robes, of a pale and emaciated body rising from a cauldron, of screaming pain, bright red eyes and cold laughter— “You’re an _idiot._ This is _his_ house too, you know. There are a million other safer places—”

“Be silent,” Riddle commands irritably. There’s an edge to it. Something tells Harry that no one’s dared to call him an idiot recently; he realizes that with an edge of hysteria, but one that settles alongside the thought that Riddle could probably stand to hear it more often. But… still, it takes him a moment to take a step forward. He could almost call it hesitance, if it weren’t some iteration of a young Voldemort at his back. “The wards are gone. There’s no one here. So, _walk.”_

Harry does. He curses in his mind every step of the way, and his thoughts race with how to get out of this; how to wrestle his wand from Riddle, how to escape—

—but, _Merlin._ Even if he escapes, _then_ what? Not just one Voldemort loose in the world, but _two?_

No. He can’t risk it. There’s no other option. He has to deal with this himself.

It’s the only reason Harry can think of as to why he doesn’t fight when (Voldemort? Riddle?) opens the door and jabs him in the back, a clear indication for Harry to enter first. He does, to a night-dark hall and thick cobwebs overhead, squeaking floorboards. It smells like dust and stale air, so dense with it that he has to suppress a sneeze. It smells like his cupboard used to. Harry suppresses a shiver, too.

A hiss—Harry nearly jumps out of his skin as he sees something out of the corner of his eye, until he realizes that it’s himself and Riddle behind him, reflected in the surface of a mirror so thick with grime he can barely see more than shapes. Riddle mutters something so quiet and angry under his breath that Harry nearly doesn’t hear him. It is not a snake, nor is it some hidden assailant. Just Riddle, irate.

Riddle is more dangerous than any threat but Voldemort himself, Harry reminds himself. There is nothing here that can threaten him while Riddle’s around, and while he’s claimed Harry as a captive of his own. 

It’s a small comfort.

They enter into a drawing room that Harry doesn’t recognize from any of his dreams; with a flick of Riddle’s wand, a wooden chair pulls itself from the wall and centers itself. Another flick; candles flare to life that Harry wouldn’t have even known were _there._ One last flick, and he feels his body leave the ground and lands heavily in the seat—the wooden arms and legs of the chair contort and twist around his own before they touch back down, and leave him all but bound _to_ the chair _by_ the chair. A clever bit of Transfiguration, that. 

Harry glowers up at him. Riddle, for his part, does not look particularly threatened.

“I want information,” he says simply. Across from Harry, another chair jumps into motion; Riddle settles upon the edge of it, back straight, legs spread. Authoritative. “You’re going to give it to me.”

“Pass,” Harry replies, flat. 

Though nothing noticeably changes on his face, the air seems to grow charged and tense. Riddle’s dark eyes grow stormy as he leans forward. His forearms brace on his thighs; in one hand, their wands are held loosely, together. They look so dissimilar. Equal opposites. Harry pushes that thought aside when Riddle speaks up again. “You promised me answers.”

“No,” Harry retorts. “I said that if you _wanted_ answers, you were going to have to help me not get carted off. I never said I’d actually do the answering.” Harry’s gotten quite good at knowing the ins and outs of the technicalities of what he says. There’s only so many ways that he and Ron have been able to avoid Hermione’s ire over the years when they wheedled their way out of study groups. “And unless you’ve got a vial of Veritaserum hidden in this safehouse, which is not actually _your_ safehouse, then I’d say you’re out of luck.”

“I can rip them from your mind.” The candlelight reflects in the black holes of his eyes; Riddle’s voice may be soft, but his demeanor is that of a predator starved, determining which piece of Harry he means to tear out and gorge on first in his ravenous hunger.

It’s stupid to challenge a master Legilimens. He knows this. He’s learned it the hard way, that it’s a _stupid_ thing to do—but Harry meets his gaze head-on. “You can try.”

He doesn’t know whether the connection he shares with Voldemort extends to this version. But he gets the idea he’s about to find out. It’s what the Voldemort of this time would do—exactly as he says, and rip the thoughts right from him, the memories; break down the walls of Harry’s mind, and force his way through in a fit of petulant rage. 

Riddle’s eyes flash, and the air brightens and tastes of ozone, of lightning, and Harry prepares himself for pain.

But.

Muscles tighten, almost like he means to attack. Unhinged. Feral.

Then, slowly, Riddle’s expression changes to one of suspicion. One of derision. His eyes narrow. And then, in a fluid motion, he stands. Walks closer, Stands before Harry and looks down his nose at him, a memory aged like wine; Harry remembers the Chamber, twelve years old and staring up at the shadow of Riddle, forever frozen at sixteen. He’d seemed so much older, then. So much wiser. Terrifying, at the time. 

Yet, this is more potent, somehow. Probably because sixteen has come and gone for Harry, and he knows now that sixteen means none of the things he thought it would when he was young.

Probably because it’s real, too.

“What are you up to, little thief?” Riddle murmurs. “You’re much too agreeable.”

“You call this agreeable?” Harry bites back.

“For you? Yes, I’m starting to think so.” He crosses his arms, and Harry glares daggers at the hand that holds his wand so casually, and if he could only just _move—_ “Well. There are other means of getting what I want.” Harry twitches as Riddle glances down and seems to consider their wands beside one another. There’s something that makes him viscerally _furious_ about seeing _this_ particular man hold it so casually. And, of course, Riddle notices immediately. “Don’t worry, I have no plans to snap it. You’ve intrigued me enough to earn that much.”

Before Harry can retort, Riddle’s yew wand twirls between his fingers, and he silently starts casting—but the pain Harry is waiting for doesn’t come. Instead, a silver circle forms around the chair, suspended in the air; it reminds Harry of the age line around the Goblet of Fire in the fourth year. Another spell, the sensation not unlike the Disillusionment charm: but rather than the trickle-down sensation feeling cold, it’s pleasantly warm, and curls through his bones and finally chases away the shivers that have plagued him all night. Harry feels warmer than he has in months. He tries not to feel grateful for it.

One more, and two little balls of light form between them, one on the left and one on the right, hovering and indistinct. Riddle eyes them, then nods once with satisfaction as he takes his own chair and sets it just outside the line that surrounds Harry. Then he, too, steps outside it. 

He watches attentively. He doesn’t sit. And Harry’s wand is still in his hand.

“You said you know where we are,” Riddle says. He casts a glance around, too shrewd to be called considering. “So? Where are we, then?”

Clearly Riddle’s up to something. Harry is determined not to fall into it. He snorts quietly. _“Hogwarts,”_ he drawls sarcastically.

One of the little lights instantly glows brighter—a deep red. 

At the very same time, that warming sensation feels just a little bit warmer. Harry sucks in a breath in surprise. 

Riddle looks pleased; not at all surprised. He rounds the chair and _tsks_ under his breath. He looks perfectly poised as he rests his hands on the back of it, perfectly condescending. Perfectly in control, as he had in every memory Dumbledore had shown him of Riddle’s younger years, holding court with his classmates; a self-described lord among commoners. “Best not to lie. The consequences can be unfortunate.”

Of course. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. Of course Riddle means to interrogate him, he’s just decided to be more _creative_ about it. 

Helpless dismay claws its way up his throat, but Harry is not the type to let it linger. He was prepared to die in the woods, and to die on Magnolia Road; he’s prepared to die here, too. “Do your worst, then. I’ll never help you.”

RIddle’s smirk drops. His hands tighten on the back of the chair, until he finally lets it go. Draws to his full height, head cocked, jaw set. Arrogant. Entitled. “Your perceptions are colored by whatever you know of _him._ You know nothing of _me_ or what I’ve done, and you’d still refuse me?”

Harry’s lips twist in a sneer. He’s tired, he’s _angry,_ he’s got nothing to offer but the most visceral reactions when it comes to Voldemort. There’s no neutrality when he’s known this face as an enemy almost all his life, no matter what form it comes in. “I know why this house is empty, and that was all _you._ You’re saying that’s not reason enough to tell you to sod off?”

Harry’s grit in, he’s ready to argue—but then something happens that bewilders him. The red light dims and returns to white. The other, though, glows green. 

All at once, like the light is a reminder to not lose his temper, Riddle’s expression smooths. He taps the wands against his other hand, a thoughtful gesture. “So you do.” Another tap. Another moment of silence. And then another, and Harry’s question goes unanswered. 

Then Riddle takes maddeningly measured steps just outside the edge of the circle. Harry determinedly does not follow his movement by trying to crane his head. Instead, he stares stubbornly, resolutely forward. 

Riddle’s voice comes from behind him. “I believe I am starting to understand the uniqueness of the situation we’ve found ourselves in—”

“Oh, are you?” Harry mutters.

Riddle continues as if he hadn’t heard. “—where I have found myself in a time that is not my own by non-standard means, and you have found yourself in the company of someone you consider an enemy, for actions that are not _entirely_ mine.” Harry is sure the distinction is only for his benefit, based on the hint of derision with which it’s said. Riddle continues to pace around the circle, and comes back into Harry’s vision: he takes measured steps, back straight, and yet still manages to hold an air of lethal grace. It’s unlike any other wizard he’s ever known. “And yet, you know more about me than anyone else, for reasons unknown. And, if I had to posit a guess as to _why_ you’re on the run, it’s because you are wanted for the circumstances that informed you.” He pauses then, and he looks at Harry. Arches an eyebrow. “Correct?”

Merlin, he’s insufferable. Harry glowers at him. Riddle seems to take this as an affirmative. 

“Which would lead me to believe that I—namely, _he—_ regards you as much an enemy as you regard him. Would you say that’s accurate?”

Harry doesn’t answer. Or, rather, he tries not to answer.

But after a fair few seconds of silence, that warm sensation grows hotter yet again. Uncomfortably so. He can feel sweat break out across his brow, at the small of his back, where he is padded thickly with many layers of clothing. 

Harry lets out a breath and takes another one in, the room temperature air soothing as it cools his soft palate, but is not enough to break the heat that’s building in his body. Riddle begins his circuit anew, lingering just out of sight, _playing_ with him, and _that_ more than being bound and captured, being questioned, makes Harry snarl, “Go to hell.”

An aloof hum is what he receives in response—but when Riddle speaks, Harry knows him well enough to hear the irritation. “Why bother to deny it? These are the easiest of questions with the most obvious of answers; being obstinate will only make things worse for yourself.”

Harry bares his teeth, knowing Riddle can’t see him. “Another _obvious_ question answered for you, then, mate—obstinate is my middle name.”

He expects the heat as it rises, the ball of light as it flashes red, and Harry’s heart starts to race as he lets out a wild laugh. He pulls at his confines, but it does him no good. He half-wonders what the end result of Riddle’s spell will be; if perhaps, like Fawkes, Harry will burst into flames, burning from the inside out.

There will be no rising again from this, though.

He wonders, absently, what Riddle will do with him when he’s dead. He still won’t be able to get the locket back out of the mokeskin pouch—but, Harry’s mind reminds him, this _is_ Voldemort one way or another. Harry’s sure he’ll find a way.

Then, like he hasn’t deliberately been lurking out of sight, Riddle completes his circuit of the room. But this time, he walks to the chair and he sits just outside that silver line. He faces Harry head-on, and his eyes drink in what’s sure to be a blotchy, ruddy flush on Harry’s cheeks, the gleam of sweat on his brow. “You hate me that much? That you would you kill yourself to spite me?”

Harry gasps another breath. A bead of sweat drips down his spine beneath his bundle of sweaters and the jacket atop it all. His wrists twist. The chair doesn’t give. This time, he doesn’t lie. “Yeah, I would.”

Those dark eyes glint in the candlelit room; it’s worse, Harry thinks, that he doesn’t look like a monster. At least the monster was something Riddle made himself, and was undeniable but terrifying proof to the world of the danger that lurked right in front of them. But when _this_ Riddle kills him, when he leaves this house, no one will know who he is. _What_ he is. Free and clear to walk whatever street he pleases, unidentifiable aside from that pervasive sense of wrongness about him, that proves he’s not _quite_ the man he’d been—but no one would ever know to place him as _Voldemort,_ of all people—

“I propose an equal exchange. Quid pro quo.”

The words bring him back to earth—almost. Because Harry can’t be sure they’re real, for how _strange_ they are. He would reel back in shock if he could; as it stands, he flinches, and Riddle watches him with open fascination. “You want to make a deal with me?”

“I assume the reckless venture that led you to the godforsaken place we met was more than a camping trip. You’re certainly not on the run for fun, especially if you’re in possession of my locket.” His gaze sharpens. “And the fact that you have it in your possession whole and unharmed leads me to believe that, upon acquiring it, you had no idea what to do with it.”

Harry _definitely_ doesn’t want to answer that one, but, really, it answers itself. True, he is not wearing the locket itself—but he can still feel its weight in the pouch around his neck, sure as the heat slowly boiling his blood. He feels no better with it in the mokeskin pouch, either. Whatever curses linger on the damned thing won’t be ignored so easily. 

Still. Harry can feel the shock on his face as he reads between the lines, or tries to. “You’d help me destroy it?”

Riddle’s expression twists into a scowl. “No.”

“Then no deal—”

“But I can achieve both our ends,” he continues. He inclines his chin at the pouch Harry wears around his neck. “What you said before—that it isn’t mine. I believe you may be right.”

Perhaps it should be a small comfort, but Harry will take whatever comfort he can get right now. Two Voldemorts is too much to handle. The idea that one of them, _this_ one, is not everything his predecessor—postdecessor?—is… it _is_ comforting. It doesn’t make him less dangerous. Dare Harry even think that a mortal Tom Riddle might even be more ruthless and dangerous than an _im_ mortal one.

The heat makes Harry restless. He’s light-headed, wants to get up, to pace; staying immobile just reiterates that he’s trapped here, boiling slowly from the inside out at Riddle’s leisure. He tries to move his legs; no luck. And it’s that very irritability that makes its way out in the standard way that tends to get him in trouble—his smart mouth. “Small mercies, I guess.”

Riddle shoots him a cutting look. _“But,”_ he continues, “I was able to get the locket from around your neck when, as you may recall, it attempted to _strangle the life from you._ It acknowledged me. It knew who I was, despite being out of alignment with my own personal timeline. If I can get to them all, I believe I can… persuade them to my allegiance.”

Harry’s brows draw together. His memory of those minutes is somewhat fuzzy, but he _does_ recall that the locket took some convincing, that it did not obey right away—

 _—but Riddle doesn’t know that,_ Harry realizes. _He doesn’t know I speak Parseltongue._

“And as they cannot be destroyed—”

“They can,” Harry interrupts, and Riddle stops. He stares. Brash, reckless, Harry presses on. “I know they can. I’ve destroyed one before.”

The little light turns green; bathes them both in the glow. The silence stretches, in which Riddle is so still that Harry can only picture a coiled snake, poised for the strike. 

He wonders if this is what he saw that night, an infant in his crib, staring up into the face of the man who would attempt to kill him. Was it this face? The thought comes to him and nearly feels like delirium; Harry would watch for an attack, but what does it matter when he can’t move? He squirms again, tugs at his binds, and feels his undermost layer of clothing sticky and nearly soaked-through with sweat. He barks a frustrated, useless noise of anger—but at least the heat does not intensify.

Riddle doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He simply asks, “Which?”

Harry will later account the honesty to his own physical discomfort. His head drops back. “Diary.”

A quiet breath. A green light. Maybe Riddle thought that Harry was lying, despite all the safeguards he’s put in place to ensure he can’t. “When?”

Well, he’s not _that_ far gone. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.”

Harry lifts his head, just as restless, just in time to see Riddle’s jaw working in silent fury as he visibly comes to some sort of accord. “No matter, then. There’s still—”

“Dumbledore got the ring, too,” Harry adds, and for a moment thinks that maybe goading Riddle isn’t so smart when the light glows a brighter green, but Riddle’s eyes flash red. 

“Did he?” His voice is low. Cold. “Perhaps I’ll have to thank him.”

Harry knows Riddle means anything but. “Missed your chance.”

Perhaps it’s just the torch he’s held for hating Dumbledore all these years, that Riddle doesn’t look any happier, but does seem somewhat mollified. “Ah. Did I, or rather my counterpart—”

“No,” Harry says, and though the simple lie of _natural causes_ is right on his tongue, he narrowly stops himself. He can’t take much more before he boils. He’ll settle for truth to spare himself, if only half-truth.

Riddle’s lips purse, but that little light pulses green and confirms Harry’s honesty. “How many more do you know of, including the one you have?”

“Including the one I have?” The mantra begins in Harry’s head again, the loop that’s haunted him for the last handful of months. _The locket, the cup, the snake, something of Ravenclaw’s…_ “Four.” He watches Riddle’s pupils dilate in the haunting light. In this moment, he does almost look like a monster. Harry can see that terrible, inhuman satisfaction at the confirmation that—“He got exactly what you wanted. Six, plus him. Cheers.”

Perhaps it’s Harry’s flat tone of voice, so much less than impressed with what Riddle considers to be his greatest achievement. But his eyes narrow and lock on Harry in return. “I achieved what no other wizard even thought possible—”

“That’s for sure.” Harry breathes shallowly through his mouth and glares for all he’s worth. In his mind, behind his eyes, a friend lies dead in the grass; a crowd of hooded figures cower before a man they call _My Lord;_ Wormtail whimpers, clutching the bleeding stump of his wrist; _bow to death, Harry—_ “So why would I ever agree to help you? You want to steal his horcruxes and make them yours—assuming that’s even possible, why the _hell_ do you think that’s something I’d agree to? Why would you even _want_ to?”

Riddle’s eyes narrow with careful consideration. They flicker over Harry’s face, to the sheen of sweat on his forehead, his heaving chest. “Your defiance alone proves that clearly this venture of mine did not go entirely to plan. My presence, too, is even more proof.” A slow blink. A slow exhale. Then Riddle stands, and with a casual wave of his hand, like brushing dust from his dark clothing—

—the heat abates; fades away, as though it had never been. Harry gasps in relief as the fever breaks and the sweat on his brow is able to cool his skin. Within moments, he is hit by the cold of this house and begins to shiver anew. But, Merlin, he never thought he’d look forward to cold. 

His head drops, chin to chest. Sweat rolls down his face and drips from the end of his nose. His heart still beats wildly in his chest as his body struggles to recuperate from the strain it’s undergone this night.

“I have no desire to be mortal, but I see a path forward to changing that, even in the here and now, where I have found myself faced with the reality that I need to alter my path in life. _You_ have a problem that needs solving, and I am uniquely suited to assist. Regardless, if I were to discover a version of myself hellbent on undoing everything I’ve ever achieved, surely I would consider him a terrible threat. I can’t help but imagine my counterpart would feel the same. It’s a matter of self-preservation for me as much as it is for you.”

With a wave of Riddle’s wand, the silver circle disappears; another twist, and the chair’s transfiguration flows backwards as though it had never been. Harry slumps forward, each palm wrapping around its opposite wrist and soothing the ache.

For a minute, he feels exhausted, helpless, and small. But… “It’s not about self-preservation,” Harry mutters to his knees. _It’s about doing what’s right._

“Isn’t it?” Harry looks up, only to find Riddle before him again, staring down with that same strange curiosity. “You want to live. You live, you win. That’s self-preservation at its most basic. That’s exactly what you want. That’s exactly what _I_ want.” 

The little lights blink out. It leaves Riddle only lit by the candles around the room, an imposing figure in black, bathed in flickering gold. Harry never subscribed much to the Dursleys idea of religion, but he thinks this might be what meeting the Devil would feel like. 

“We want the same thing,” Riddle murmurs, his attention intense, and Harry’s stomach twists. “We want to _change_ things. You destroying _him_ will destroy me, too, unless I help you. You’re a capable wizard, you’ve proven that much—killing you would be a terrible waste of your potential. Your Dark Lord has been a fool to underestimate you all this time. You’re a force to be reckoned with, but you need honing. Training. You’re quick, creative, but you’ll never defeat _him_ as you are now. But, I could teach you. Together, we could put an end to this. So that just leaves one question…”

What else can he do but stare, when Tom Riddle spins Harry’s want in his hand and offers it back? What surreal dream has he found himself in? Is he awake at all?

“…will you swear to do me no truly willful harm, and I will do none to you; swear your allegiance to mine, and mine to yours, until we see this through?”

Just like that, he is eleven years old, standing before a monstrous face emerging from the back of a man’s head, stumbling backward with a blood-red stone in his pocket. Just like that, he hears the offer that was only made once.

_Don’t be a fool… better save your own life and join me…_

_I always value bravery…_

He looks up into _this_ face, and considers the words. No willful harm to one another. Allegiances sworn to one another until their task is completed. 

“Not just the horcruxes,” Harry decides suddenly, and swallows, and sets his jaw. Riddle’s eyes flash. “Until Vol—”

A quiet hiss escapes Riddle’s teeth, and annoyance creases his brow. “Don’t… don’t say the name. It’s been cursed—likely in an effort to find dissidents. To find you. That’s how they found us once already tonight.” There’s a tightness around his eyes, displeasure clear as he realizes that means he cannot use the name he chose for himself, either. “Call him the Dark Lord.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles. “Swear you’ll help me until _he_ is dead. And swear you won’t follow in his footsteps. No more killing. No more torturing Muggles. Have your horcruxes, live forever—I don’t care. I can’t change what you’ve done. But your help is no good to me if you become what I’ve just destroyed.” Harry’s fingers wrap around his wand, but Riddle holds it fast; a stalemate, a war of wills in their eyes. “On your magic, not your life. You swear, and I’ll swear.”

A tense, silent moment. The candles flare in time with Riddle’s sharp breath in through his nose.

Then, a breath out. A slow, mean twist to his lips as Riddle leans just that littlest bit closer. “I can see, now, why he wants you dead.”

Harry tightens his grip on his wand, like at any moment, Riddle might try to rip it away. Unfaltering, he retorts, “This has nothing to do with why he wants me dead. Deal or no deal?”

The way Riddle looks at him makes Harry feel _seen_ in a way he doesn’t care for. And Riddle looks and looks and—

He releases his grip on Harry’s wand. Just as suddenly, he pulls away, leaving Harry off-balanced, even sitting down. “Stand. Here, in the center of the room, across from me.”

Against every instinct, against everything he has ever learned, against every memory, every agony he’s suffered, all the loyalties he holds in his heart, and every person he’s betraying by even _thinking_ of agreeing to this—Harry does.

“Wand in your left hand, anchored over your heart,” Riddle says, and watches attentively as Harry follows his direction. His lips twist with some amusement as he lifts his own to do the same. “You don’t have to hold your wand like I’m going to try to take it from you.”

“Piss off,” Harry mutters, and reluctantly loosens his grip. His knuckles still ache. “You just took it from me a minute ago. I’m not stupid, and your track record’s not the greatest.” He takes a breath. Centers himself. “So?”

Riddle reaches out with his right hand, fingers extended. Harry looks at it, then up at him, with a sneer. His stomach squirms in discomfort. All of him is uncomfortable, really. Riddle waits, expectant; when Harry doesn’t move, his brows slowly creep upward. “There’s still time for you to—”

Harry grits his teeth. He takes Riddle’s hand and glares at him, _daring_ him to say something.

But instead of looking amused, Riddle’s eyes are deep and dark, raptly attentive. Sizing Harry up, and yet looking like he’s gotten exactly what he wanted. Harry licks his lips nervously, tasting the salt of his own sweat, and Riddle watches that too.

He tears his eyes away, down to their hands, wound together. It feels… odd. 

Harry’s not used to touch. Not from anyone who isn’t Ron or Hermione, especially. Even those few casual times he’d held Ginny’s hand were nothing like this: static electricity, a coiling nervousness in his belly (that is certainly a combination of nerves and disgust) as his hand is engulfed in one larger than his, bony and angular and chilled to the touch.

Riddle doesn’t _feel_ human.

“Now what?” Harry asks.

Riddle’s voice is hushed in the quiet room. “Unbreakable Vows are usually done with a third party to witness the binding, and to officiate. For this, you and I will state our sides of the agreement aloud, as we already have. Our magic will do the binding. Then it will be done.”

Harry swallows once, and suppresses a shiver of cold. Then, nervously, and gathering what courage he can, he nods. “Right, then. You first.”

“Very well. I will ask you again.” He cocks his head. Harry can feel Riddle’s burning gaze as he looks at him; he doesn’t want to, but he makes eye contact. Once he does, he can’t look away. “Will you swear to do me no truly willful harm, and I will do none to you; swear your allegiance to mine, and mine to yours, until we see our chosen task through?”

Harry’s eyes close. He gives himself only a moment to feel this dread, to feel this regret, before he smothers it under the weight of his resolve to make this deal with the Devil.

He is the only one who can do this. He _will_ do this.

And he will survive it.

Harry opens his eyes. “I will.”

A thin golden chain bursts to life around their hands, delicate as the locket’s, tying his hand to Riddle’s. 

And now it’s Harry’s turn. He takes a shaky breath and lets it out. “On your magic, will you swear to help me defeat… the Dark Lord?”

“I will.”

Another tether, binding them together. 

Another breath. This one is steadier, and Harry lifts his chin. He meets Riddle’s stare head-on. “Will you swear not to commit violence for the sake of violence, outside of what’s required to protect ourselves? No killing muggles or muggleborns. No war. Not now or after.”

Riddle’s eyes narrow, but he inclines his head. “I swear.”

With a third golden thread, it’s clear he intends that to be the last of it. 

But Harry’s mind focuses, for once, with potent clarity on words already spoken. He opens his mouth again. “Will you swear to teach me, to the best of your ability, any skills you know that could give me an advantage over the Dark Lord? Dueling. Spells. Nonverbal magic. Occlumency, if you can. Whatever you’ve got.” He stares at Riddle; his dark, flat eyes. He gives it a moment. The silence stretches with Riddle’s non-answer. “Well? Will you?”

Riddle’s jaw works in silence. Then, one corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk. “I will.”

One final chain.

Riddle takes his left hand from his chest, and rests the tip of his wand atop the place where the chains are most tightly woven, like a knot on the loom of the Fates, over the join of their hands. “With this accord, we are sworn.” His gaze lifts to Harry’s as the golden glow fades. His voice is a soft, lethal sound as he murmurs, _“Fatum ad invenium; fatum ligarum.”_

It sounds like a spell, but as Riddle looks at him, the chains disappear. The light is gone.

Harry’s chest seizes with something like panic. Their hands drop.

Riddle takes a step back. He considers Harry—and then he turns away. “Let’s gather what supplies we can find. We can’t stay here. While I have no strong desire to skulk about in the woods, it may be our best option until we have a better plan of action.” Riddle goes to reach for something at his side, clearly a force of habit, for he glances down and scowls when he sees nothing there. “Perhaps some of my clothing has survived the ages. If nothing else, I should be able to transfigure something suitable…”

He steps brusquely around Harry and heads for the doorway; he pauses there, and turns back when he notices Harry isn’t following him. His eyes narrow. 

There’s a sense of unreality that pervades this whole thing. Harry glances down at his hand, like he expects it to be fundamentally changed in some way. Does he? Is it? Is _he?_

He looks up. “Just like that?”

Riddle arches a brow. However, this time, he looks amused. “An Unbreakable Vow is not usually something one questions _after_ it’s done…”

And then, with a glint in his eyes, he prowls forward again. Closer, closer; Harry takes a step back, but Riddle seems to have no consideration for his personal space. His heartbeat redoubles, and the sense of encroaching danger, too, redoubles, even knowing that they’ve sworn not to hurt each other, that despite everything, they are _allies—_

Harry bumps into something as Riddle herds him across the room; an old desk, covered in dust, that he ends up nearly seated on when he reaches a place he can back up no further. His face screws up with a nervous scowl. “Hey, what are you—”

“I should have known. You didn’t even ask about the Vow. You were raised by muggles,” Riddle demands. “Weren’t you? That neighborhood—it was a muggle one. Even though you have the surname of a pureblood. But you said that _you_ were the proof that I’m a killer…” He cocks his head.

Harry wants to _punch_ him. 

And then Riddle’s body goes very still. His breathing silences. He’s too close for comfort, but frozen in place, as he stares at Harry in front of him. “Are you an orphan, too?”

Blood rushes in Harry’s ears. _Get away,_ says his most deep, buried, visceral instinct—the antithesis to his lion’s courage: the serpent’s sense of self-preservation. _Get away._

He shoves at Riddle, _hard,_ and is already moving when he staggers back a step. “It’s _Harry,”_ he hisses, heading for the doorway. “And yes I am, thanks to _you—”_

A cold hand grips his wrist. Harry whirls around, wand in-hand, furious enough to _kill,_ and finds himself nose-to-nose with Riddle’s just the same, and—

The ringing in his ears grows louder. His head swims. His knees nearly buckle, and his arm falls away before the screaming in his head finally starts to quiet again.

Riddle throws his head back with a loud, savage laugh. His teeth are white and straight and sharp, and he clutches at one side of his head with his wand-hand just the same as Harry, just as affected. 

“The Vow can’t be betrayed without stripping us both,” Riddle says, and Harry wrenches his other hand free. He backs up, breathing heavily, scowling. They both are, now; Riddle’s eyes narrow. “These are things you should _know._ Things you _will_ know by the time I’m done with you.”

“There are plenty of things I know because of what you’ve done to me.” Harry bares his teeth. 

Riddle’s dark expression lingers, but slowly, it seems to retreat. In its place comes a twist of his lips. “But you’ve survived, haven’t you? You’re a survivor. So am I.” 

A moment of stalemate. Then, Riddle’s posture loosens. He inclines his head toward the door. 

Harry holds his position. Finally, reluctantly, he goes.

Riddle stops him in the doorway; a hand to his shoulder—but this time, it’s not bruising. Harry’s back meets the doorjamb all the same, and that threatened feeling rises. Riddle’s wand, though, is lax at his side. It’s the only reason Harry doesn’t draw on him again. “You’d do well to remember that I am _not_ the one who killed your parents. I understand this situation is singularly unique, but don’t forget that I am now the primary obstacle standing between you and Death. I am your most valuable ally. Your wit amuses me, _boy,_ but I won’t tolerate disrespect. Is that clear?”

Harry’s lip curls. He narrowly avoids snarling. Instead, he makes sure his voice is just _dripping_ with insincerity when he murmurs, “Yes _sir.”_

Despite the warning hissed only seconds ago, Riddle responds with a sharp, terrifying smile. “No need to call me _sir_ outside of class, darling pupil,” he purrs, head ducked, and the space between them is dark and strange and heated in some strange way. A new way. Glowering, cheeks burning, Harry turns his face away. It does nothing to increase the distance when the words are spoken, forming the echo of a new memory alongside the old; two candlelit nights, bridged across time. Two monsters with the same face, emerging from the dark to greet him: “Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.”


	4. 1:4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: oh yeah, i'm trying to update once a week!!  
> also me: /immediately misses the next week
> 
> whoops. let's say i'm trying for every other monday to be safe, ey? and when it's weekly, it'll be a happy surprise. 
> 
> cheers to everyone who's read, kudos'd, and commented so far!! ♥♥

They stand below a moonlit sky, breath fogging around their faces. Whether he found them or transfigured them, Riddle was able to procure more than one set of clothing, and a host of supplies relevant to their survival. Though not quite so small or dainty, he had spelled a bag like Hermione’s to be expansive on the inside; some expensive-looking leather satchel that certainly didn’t look like it belonged out in the elements—as they would be for some time to come.

Harry takes a breath and lets it out. 

Hermione.

He can’t bring Riddle back to her. He can’t involve her in this. He doesn’t know _how_ he could justify what he’s done, how he could explain it. He can’t even explain it to himself. 

“Don’t suppose you know how to make a talking Patronus?” Harry mutters.

Riddle’s eyes sharpen in the dim. He watches Harry attentively. “I know the theory. I’ve never had the need.”

Harry thinks that’s a pretty fancy way of saying _I’ve never cast a Patronus before._ After all, a man with a soul so split he’s become nearly inhuman, a man with a past so shaded in misery that he would rather destroy himself than ever be subjugated again—how could a man like that ever really know what true happiness is?

“What’s the theory?” Harry asks begrudgingly. 

Riddle doesn’t blink, serpentine. “It’s a combination of the Patronus charm and the amplifying charm, _Sonorus—”_

Oh. Harry knows _Sonorus—_ or at least knows how it works in theory, from watching Dumbledore cast it in his fourth year during the Triwizard Tournament, and Bagman at the Quidditch World Cup. That should be simple enough.

“—in theory, one would cast the Patronus first, and give it the message, then tell it the target of who it’s meant to find—”

But Harry isn’t listening anymore; the Patronus is something he knows he can cast blindfolded, in the dark, no matter how miserable his night has been. His previous failure at the Ministry notwithstanding—no, he can _do_ this. He turns his shoulder on Riddle as his eyes slip closed, and he hears the man behind him descend into a silence that _feels_ decidedly irritated; Harry doesn’t care. 

Instead, he draws on his memories of this summer past: around the table at the Burrow, the Snitch-shaped cake, the watch now on his wrist, more than half a dozen redheads, Lupin, Hagrid, Hermione. The family he found. The family he made. Wand in-hand, Harry breathes in slowly, and out again. _“Expecto Patronum.”_

He opens his eyes as he feels the stag leap forth, somehow both larger and smaller than Harry remembers. It figures, though, since Harry himself is taller now. The stag gallops around the yard, but seeing no adversaries, turns its silvery eyes back to Harry and approaches, heedless of his looming company. 

Harry steps forward, hand held out to the stag in greeting; he smiles, even when his hand gently fazes through one of the antlers. It feels warm. “ ‘lo Prongs,” he murmurs. “Think you could take a message to Hermione for me?”

The spectral stag snorts, and though there is no sound, a cloud of silver breath expels from its muzzle. Harry can’t resist grinning at that. No, he doesn’t know if his Patronus will be able to get through Hermione’s magical barricades around the camp—but this is all he can do to try. 

Harry presses the tip of his wand to his throat. He speaks. “It’s me. Uh…” He didn’t think this through. He doesn’t know what to say. And just like that, he can feel his eyes start to burn, his throat start to constrict at the thought of leaving her on her own, after everything she’s done for him. But he has to push through. “…something happened. It’s not safe for me to stay with you anymore. I’m okay, but I have to do the rest of this on my own.” He doesn’t know how to do this on his own. “Go back to the… where we were this summer, they’ll help you, or hide you, or… I dunno. But… I have the _thing,_ and I think I know what to do with it. I’m sorry I can’t say more. I don’t know if Patronuses can be intercepted. And I… I know you’re gonna be so mad at me, but I hope you can forgive me on the other side of all this. I hope I’ll see you soon. Stay safe.”

Harry lowers his wand. His eyes still sting as he looks at Prongs. It’s so strange how a moment ago he felt happy, and now all he can feel is grief. “Go on, then.”

The silver stag ducks his head in something that could be a bow, then turns and gallops off, becoming intangible before he hits the line of the woods. 

It’s done.

There’s no going back.

Then, a voice at his back. “I wasn’t aware they taught the Patronus charm before N.E.W.T. Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Reluctantly, Harry turns back to face Riddle and his cold, curious eyes. “They don’t. I learned out of necessity.

Riddle’s eyes narrow. “Necessity to repel Dementors? At your age?”

 _At my age?_ Harry thinks, and barks out a laugh. “I learned to cast a Patronus four years ago. I don’t know the number of times I’ve needed to use it since.”

A long, silent stare. Then, “You were a child.”

And Harry stares right back. “I cannot even begin to tell you how much that’s never mattered, when it comes to me.” Harry draws the cloak tighter around his body, and though Riddle is _insufferable,_ Harry can’t help but feel at least a spark of gratitude for the change from his inadequate winter coat. Despite his words, he almost feels… normal.

Nothing about this is normal, though.

“That’s everything, then,” Harry says pointedly. “We should get out of here.”

Riddle doesn’t react immediately, but when he does, it’s for his expression to smooth into one of aloof indifference. He holds out his arm, and even _that_ somehow appears pompous in a way that grates Harry to the bone. How did Riddle make it through school universally beloved, fawned over, when Harry would gladly throw a punch at any given time?

“Waiting on _you,_ then,” Riddle answers, and Harry can hear the mockery in his tone without having to see the glint of it in his eyes. “If you’re done sending love notes to your girlfriend.”

Harry grits his teeth. “Hermione’s not my girlfriend, she’s my best friend. I couldn’t just leave without telling her why I’ve gone.”

Riddle arches a brow expectantly. It’s clear he doesn’t think highly of Harry’s explanation. 

Harry doesn’t think highly of his attitude. He reaches out and grips Riddle’s arm anyway. Hard.

Riddle Disapparates, and the world compresses into blackness one last time—for better or worse, forever changed.

* * *

In a word, Potter is… paradoxical. 

Despite his reckless nature, he is cunning; despite his unyielding attitude, he compromises; he is belligerent as unpredictably as he is agreeable. 

Lord Voldemort doesn’t like unpredictable things. He much prefers to be in control of them.

It’s with a sense of disquiet when they arrive in the Albanian forest that he watches Potter crawl headfirst into his own tent, erected swiftly with what appears to be a well-practiced charm, without so much as a blanket. When Voldemort places the wards and layered protection spells around their makeshift _camp—_ he thinks the word distastefully, he hates that he has been reduced to this, and yet, it seems that this is a necessary move, a necessary sacrifice, another chess piece arranged to his liking in the grand scheme of this new game—Potter doesn’t stir. It’s with a strange sense of unreality that he realizes, despite their threats to one another just hours earlier, his new companion has immediately fallen into sleep just a few paces away from a version of his greatest adversary. 

He doesn’t remember what it’s like to be exhausted. 

Away from Potter’s watchful eyes, Voldemort’s brows pull together and he scowls. His hands twitch with barely-restrained violence as his tent springs into being, as the interior expansion charm takes hold, and as he enters and shuts it behind him. The warming charm swiftly follows.

A wave of his wand, and the contents of his satchel arrange themselves neatly—a reasonably comfortable bedroll that he can sit upon, what hidden books he saw fit to steal from Riddle Manor, clothing taken from the closets, much of it left untouched all this time. Salazar’s journal had been nowhere to be found; he assumes that his counterpart must be in possession of it. 

And isn’t that just the thing?

Under no circumstances would Voldemort be inclined to take anyone at their word that he’s been thrown forward through time, but he’s seen the evidence himself—in the shape of the muggle automobiles, in the state of his father’s ancestral home, in the defiant eyes of a young man who knows things about him he’s never told anyone. 

December, 1997: thirty-six years into the future. He’s been sent forward more years than he’s been alive, if only just.

Why this time? Why that place?

And why this boy?

He toes off his shoes and crosses the tent; sweeps his cloak from his shoulders, and drapes it beside the bedroll, where he turns and sits. He leaves his books untouched. Instead, he closes his eyes and rubs at his temples with his forefingers, wishing he had a Pensieve in which to rewatch the memories of this evening, study them and scrutinize them before the subject of his thoughts awakens. 

Harry Potter.

To be unceremoniously dumped from the past into a wartime future, directly into the path of a boy who wears a horcrux around his neck—a boy who viscerally, morally, and mortally opposes his future self… well. Lord Voldemort is many things. He would not count a fool to be one of them.

Salazar’s journal said that the ritual was not for the faint of heart. That he would lose everything he held dear. But perhaps he _was_ a fool to think that he had nothing to lose.

His horcruxes. In one fell swoop, his five anchors to immortality are gone. Two have been destroyed. Three are no longer his to claim, and his counterpart has made another one, beside. His followers, his notoriety, even his _name._

He is back to where he started—except the horcruxes he already made are, in fact, still made. Just not his. But the locket knew him. Recognized him. If he can convince Potter to let him see the thing again, to spend time with it, perhaps he can make it his again. 

And… 

Indeed, perhaps he was a fool in thinking there would be no consequences. However, he’s not fool enough to stare an opportunity so plainly in the face without seizing it for his own.

The Voldemort of this time has failed as a Slytherin. To conquer so boldly, to make an enemy out of everyone who knows his name, is something almost so laughably Gryffindor that Voldemort could hardly believe it to be himself, if not for the catastrophic damage that’s been done. He has always been efficient in his killing. Perhaps, this time, too efficient. 

_Immeasurable knowledge and wisdom beyond belief are what you stand to gain._

Fate itself dropped him into the path of Harry Potter, a boy so steeped in secrets that he wears them marked upon his body, so full of will that he has defied Lord Voldemort thrice tonight _alone,_ and in possession of power so great that he had _survived_ it. Survived, and pushed back.

Yes, the Voldemort of this time has failed as a Slytherin, to not see the potential that rests so plainly before him.

Well, _this_ Voldemort will succeed where the other failed.

On all fronts.

* * *

Harry awakens to the cold.

That in and of itself is not unusual; what _is_ unusual is that Hermione let him sleep in, that he hears no other noise, that—

Hermione. 

Even the thought of her name, and everything comes back, a wave sweeping over his head with enough force to drag him under.

He swore an Unbreakable Vow with _Voldemort,_ a version of Tom Riddle that _fell through time—_ an oath that the man himself will help Harry hunt and neutralize the horcruxes so they can kill his other self— 

Harry covers his face with his hands and groans.

* * *

The first day goes about as well as could be expected.

Riddle hears Harry milling about and arises to investigate. Harry complains of the cold, and Riddle looks at him like an idiot and asks him why he didn’t use a warming charm. Harry looks at _him_ like an idiot and asks how the hell he’s supposed to hold a warming charm while he’s asleep.

Cue their first lesson—

“No, I said _focus_ your magic, Potter, not amplify. You don’t need power, you need precision in order to section off a portion of your core—”

“Yeah? Then why don’t they teach any of this at Hogwarts?”

“This is postgraduate, supposedly-advanced theory that most never bother to learn; however, _I’d_ mastered this by fifth year—”

“Well we can’t all be baby Dark Lords, can we?”

“If you just _shut up_ and _concentrated—_ ”

“Well maybe if you stopped _talking_ for once, and actually _let_ me focus—”

—flaring tempers are interrupted only when Harry’s stomach rumbles, when the throbbing in his head can be ignored no longer, and he begrudgingly is forced to admit to Riddle’s snappish _what’s wrong with you?_ that he’s into his third day without food. His and Hermione’s rations had nearly run dry, and though it has been quite some time, Harry knows how to weather hunger pangs better. 

(Of course, he would never admit _that_ part to Riddle. )

Riddle stares at him for a time, then firmly instructs Harry to stay put. When he returns an hour later, it is seemingly empty-handed—until he opens his satchel and starts to unload an assortment of cans, dried meats and fruits, bottles of water, and two pre-made deli sandwiches. 

Harry stares at him, aghast. “Where did you get all this?”

Riddle doesn’t _quite_ roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Where do you think? There’s a town not far from here. I Apparated and bought it there.”

“You and what money?” Harry asks incredulously. “You’ll never convince me you had muggle money. There’s no way.”

“Of course not.” Riddle’s expression is aloof and unbothered as he unburdens himself from the last of it—enough food for a week, maybe two. More than Harry and Hermione nearly _ever_ had at one time. “I unburdened a man from his wallet and made use of _his_ money.”

Hermione would be scandalized. Harry, though… 

He snags one of the sandwiches and sits back on his haunches. “Thief,” he says without heat, and picks at the edge of the tape that holds the butcher’s paper closed.

Still, Riddle looks annoyed. “Would you rather starve for the sake of your morals?”

The paper unwraps in Harry’s hands; his mouth waters at the scent of bread and vegetables and meat, and he finally settles down, cross-legged. Wants terribly to tear into it, but knows from experience that eating so quickly after weeks of scant meals will only make him sick. He forces himself to take a modest bite and chew thoroughly. Still, his eyes close, and for a handful of moments, he focuses only on the flavor. 

When he opens his eyes again, Riddle is staring at him, motionless, expressionless, but wheels clearly turning behind his eyes. Harry freezes in place, and for the first time, realizes that he had unquestioningly followed Riddle into his tent when he returned, and is now firmly behind the lines of enemy territory.

Except this enemy is not his enemy—supposedly.

Unsettled, Harry snaps, “Don’t Dark Lords have to eat? Or do you prefer to unhinge your jaw and swallow the nearest small animal whole?”

“The only animal around whose size makes it worth eating sits before me,” Riddle replies with a mean-spirited leer reminiscent of the hags that loitered around Knockturn Alley. 

Harry snorts. Perhaps he would have believed it at fourteen, from the monstrous form of the Voldemort he knows. Now, though, the intimidation glances off without leaving a mark. “Nice try. Your head’s big, but it’s not that big.”

Riddle’s leer is replaced with a look of annoyance, but he similarly sits and picks up the remaining paper parcel. In the light of day, sitting across from Harry, carefully unwrapping a deli sandwich, he looks… strangely normal. Odd. Slightly off. But… normal.

Harry breaks eye contact and shakes his head a bit to clear the thought. He takes another bite. 

Then Riddle speaks, and as always, he ruins everything. 

“I want to see my locket.”

Harry’s eyes snap to him. He reflexively touches the mokeskin pouch where it hangs against his sternum. “No.”

A dark flicker of something crosses Riddle’s face. He cocks his head as he stares at Harry, food open but otherwise untouched atop the paper in his lap. “That wasn’t a request.”

“Too bad,” Harry retorts. His heart beats in his throat, the meager bites of food he’s taken so far rising steadily after it. He swallows it all down. “Do you think I’m stupid? Don’t answer that—if I give it to you, there’s nothing to stop you from taking it and ditching me.” Harry defiantly forces himself to take another bite. Through a mouthful of food, rude to a fault, he says, “Not bloody likely.”

Riddle stares at him. “Nothing to stop me but an _Unbreakable Vow,_ where I am sworn to assist you—have you forgotten so soon?”

How could he forget? Harry puts the sandwich down, disgusted with himself. He folds the ends of the paper in and starts to wrap it up again, irritated. “I haven’t forgotten,” he grumbles right back. “But I don’t trust you not to have some slimy Slytherin way to get around it. So, no.”

At that, Riddle’s anger flares. The light catches his eyes as he lifts his chin, and for a moment, his eyes look deep red. “Then perhaps you’ve forgotten that our entire agreement hinges on our allegiances being tied to one another. Or that my access to my horcruxes is of paramount importance to your charming little _mission._ Or even that the very thing tried to strangle you only last night.”

“I know all that,” Harry snaps, and pushes up. “But you can’t possibly think that—” Harry doesn’t get far. Riddle doesn’t blink, doesn’t so much as twitch, but suddenly Harry can no longer move. “Let me _go.”_

“It takes two to uphold a deal, Potter,” Riddle says, dangerously soft. 

Harry knows that, he does, but Riddle just makes him so _angry._ He sets his jaw and struggles against being held fast, and a distant ringing starts in one ear—

The intangible hold disappears. The tension disappears, too, and Harry tumbles backwards with an irritated hiss. 

“Fine, then. Walk it off,” Riddle continues as though nothing happened. He lifts his sandwich and takes a prim bite. Chews and swallows, as Harry rights himself and gets to his feet—“I expect you back in an hour, ready to continue our lesson. Unlike you, I believe in upholding my end of our deal.” The light that comes through the canvas is filtered but bright; in it, Riddle’s eyes still shine with the faintest hints of red. “After all, you’ll never defeat the Dark Lord as you are.”

Harry bristles, unexpectedly stung. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Riddle takes another bite. He stares at Harry, unwavering and unsettling, as he chews and swallows. “Did you really think that getting rid of his horcruxes would make defeating him any easier? From what you’ve said—and you’ve said precious little—his reach has expanded, he has sycophants in high places, there’s a price on your head, _and_ you no longer have the assistance of Albus Dumbledore. That puts you at quite the disadvantage, not even yet accounting for the difference in your dueling skills.”

“Yeah, I know all that!” Harry grits his teeth. His headache is splitting, his stomach is still rolling with hunger, he’s _pissed._ It’s not his best day to start with, and now he has to deal with Riddle poking at wounds barely scabbed over? “I know I’ve got less than half a chance! I’ve known that since I was eleven and first heard about him, and since I was fourteen and he nearly killed me, and every single day of fifth and sixth year that I—!” Harry cuts himself off with a frustrated noise. He won’t tell Riddle about the dreams. He _won’t._ “Even before I knew, I’ve been living with it since before I was _born!_ So you don’t have to tell me that I have no idea what I’m doing and that I’m going to get myself killed—I already _know!”_

A deep and terrible feeling of despair and wild anger claws at the inside of his ribs, formless, and with nowhere to go. The paper crinkles in Harry’s hand as he jams the sandwich into his cloak pocket and starts for the door as quickly as he can manage.

He doesn’t want Riddle to see him like this. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Potter.”

Harry stops at the door. Something in him, raw with rage, wants to scream. Instead, he crushes it, forces it flat. _“What.”_

“Pull yourself together. One hour.” A quiet exhalation, sounding very irritated and put-upon. “Eat.”

“Piss off,” Harry mutters. 

His stomach growls.

He lets himself out.

* * *

_Interesting,_ Voldemort thinks. He watches the boy’s back as he disappears, Potter’s hair askew and nearly standing on end from the oppressive atmosphere that had appeared out of nowhere within the tent; ozone and atmosphere, as though seconds from a storm that had blown in and out with the boy’s temper. _Very interesting._

* * *

Harry’s mood doesn’t improve, and nor does Riddle’s patience; the lesson is a wash. 

When Riddle starts on about the locket again, Harry ignores him and storms off to his tent, small and dark, and curls as tight as he can, shivering for warmth. 

It’s cold.

* * *

Potter is not only paradoxical. Potter is _insufferable._

Two useless days pass; Voldemort would almost be able to forgive the waste if Potter were recuperating in preparation for more intensive training, _however,_ that is far from the reality. Instead, the boy’s disposition is surly and rude, the magical prowess he first perceived is nowhere to be found, and he _looks_ a mess. He’s barely taking care of himself, and it shows.

Their camp has expanded somewhat, as have the layers of charms he’s woven around them. This far from England, they have no need to keep the camp small. No ordinary thug will find them here, even under the other Voldemort’s employ. They have no _reason_ to look here, after all. If what little he knows of Potter’s history is any indication, then his own counterpart would never imagine Potter capable of Apparating this kind of distance from the United Kingdom. Nor, he imagines, does his counterpart know the depths to which Potter knows their history. Surely if he did, he’d be _much_ more diligent in hunting Potter down himself.

Voldemort sits upon a segment of a felled tree before a crackling fire, stationed equidistant between the two tents. From within his own flickers a small light; Potter’s, however, is dark. He had retired early again, petulantly retreating in the name of sleep—and yet every time he emerges again, the dark circles beneath his luminous eyes only seem darker. 

The boy is a mess—and one of his own stubborn making. 

Though it doesn’t hang around his neck as such, the locket is draining him from within that accursed pouch. And still, Potter refuses to part with it; to even let him _see_ it. Voldemort knows himself well, knows the curses he put upon the damned thing. If only he could see it, _hold_ it… and, too, _speak_ to it, persuade the locket of his mastery… perhaps, then… 

However, Potter’s reluctance to engage has lent itself well to other pursuits. Little Hangleton is far from the only safehouse he’s kept over the years, and the United Kingdom is not _nearly_ the only Wizarding hub in the world. In the uninterrupted night hours, he’s been able to collect as many books as he desires; texts on numerous topics, on spells, on the history he’s missed. And as Voldemort has no need to sleep, he’s left with nothing but time with which to catch up.

If Potter won’t speak to him, he’ll find out what he can on his own. 

And there is _much_ to find out, as it happens: he devours page after page, book after book. To this time, it’s history; to Voldemort, they are secrets of his own future. His rise. His fall.

His hands clench on the book. He wonders what it would be like to die and not be dead. What those years must’ve been like—

—but at least he _lived._

And so did Harry Potter.

The fire crackles; Voldemort doesn’t need any warmth aside from what his warming charm and cloak provide, but the atmosphere is pleasant enough. He’d far rather be indoors, but this entire _circumstance_ is unusual, and there are… he supposes, _worse_ ways to live. At the very least, _he_ is free to do what he wants when he wants; he is free to come and go, to practice magic, to procure whatever he needs. But the desire for bigger and better things is a constant itch. The desire to pry his locket from Potter’s hands—

A strangled, wild gasp issues from the darkened tent beside him; in a second, Voldemort is on his feet, wand in hand. He doesn’t _sense_ danger, but if the locket has somehow redoubled its efforts to kill his annoying little ally… 

At the thought of it, the tent flap pushes open, and Potter scrambles out headfirst, eyes wild, face wet. He rests for a moment on his hands and knees in the dirt, back rounded like a supplicant before the altar, lungs heaving. 

Voldemort stares down at him, fascinated, wand half-lowered. Disaster of a boy or not, Voldemort has certainly seen far less pretty sights than this one gasping at his feet. 

After a moment of wordless panting on Potter’s part, he arches a brow. “Are you well?”

At the sound of his voice, the boy’s head snaps up—face red, eyes green. “Why the hell are you awake?”

He hums, amused, and casually stashes his wand back in the inner pocket of his robes. He turns away and returns to his seat upon the log, and to the book open beside where he had been sitting. “I thought you knew everything about me, Potter.”

He glares. Pushes himself up off his hands, back on his haunches, and casts a look at his tent like he’s seriously considering crawling back in.

 _Don’t,_ Voldemort wants to command. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches. Instead, he stays silent.

And instead, Potter sends him a wary glance—and then one of longing at the fire. He shivers. 

Then he gets up—sways on his feet for a moment, hand pressed to his forehead, and pulling it away like he expects to see something other than dirt, something other than sweat—and he comes nearer. Sits on the other length of log before the fire, almost near enough to touch. Close enough to feel the fire’s warmth.

“Most things,” Potter finally admits begrudgingly, and leans forward until his elbows are braced on his knees. He rests his chin on his hands and studiously does not look his way. “Not everything. So why the hell are you awake?”

“I don’t sleep. I haven’t in a long time.” It’s a simple enough answer, but it draws a startled look. Apparently that’s one thing Potter _didn’t_ know. “You were unaware?”

“I…” Potter rubs at his neck with one dirt-streaked hand. He leaves a trace behind. “Not really. Maybe?” He trails off into silence for a moment. The weight of Voldemort’s eyes seems to make him agitated, uneasy. “I guess I should have known that, considering that it’s almost always night when I—” 

He stops himself from saying more, just like the last time. Voldemort wants to pull the words from his lungs, one by one—expose Potter’s hidden truths, extract them like screams, and flay him raw.

Instead, he settles for something else. 

“You look terrible,” he says bluntly. Potter twitches, perhaps surprised at the point-blank insult. Then, making his decision, Voldemort continues, “The locket is killing you, and I don’t say that hypothetically. It may not be around your neck, but it’s on your person, so it might as well be.” His eyes narrow; Potter’s narrow back, and he looks at Voldemort with a mistrustful frown. He snaps, _“Think._ You must’ve shared the burden before with your _friend,_ but you’re not doing that now. It’s draining you of life, interrupting your ability to sleep, to eat. You’re a mess. You need it away from you.”

“I don’t…” Potter twitches, hissing between his teeth, the palm of his hand pressed to his forehead and the lightning-shaped scar. Again, he pulls his hand away and inspects his palm in the firelight, and looks almost _relieved_ that all that’s there is dirt. But then, his expression falters. “I can’t just… _give_ it to you.”

“Funny,” Voldemort replies softly, “because it seems the only thing that’s stopping you from doing just that is _you._ We’re _allies,_ Potter.”

For a long moment, Potter stares into the fire and says nothing. Then, he whispers, “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me.”

“I can’t; you could never.” He shakes his head, and from his seat on the log, slowly slides down until he is seated on the earth, legs bent before him, back braced against the bark. He presses his face against his knees, crushing his glasses to his nose, clearly exhausted. “You say these things like you’re not _him,_ but you _are._ I can’t forget that, I can’t just…”

Voldemort observes in silence. It’s funny, almost; he himself is mistrustful of things like Unbreakable Vows, always suspicious that an adversary could get around such a thing if the desire so struck. Magical children, however, always venerate such oaths, fear them, respect them. In their minds, there’s no doubt that when an oath is sworn, it’s a solid and unshakeable bond. 

And here sits Harry Potter before him, a boy whose story is _steeped_ in magic, whose blood _sings_ with it, just like his—filled with the same mistrust. The same doubt. 

Voldemort closes his book, and the chapter heading disappears— _The Dark Lord’s Downfall: The Boy Who Lived._

And he holds out his hand.

It takes a moment before Potter even lifts his head; then he notices Voldemort’s flat palm, his outstretched fingers, and looks to his face. Back again. Completes the circuit another time or two in wide-eyed silence. 

“Just for a short time, while we’re sitting here,” Voldemort says. He doesn’t bother using his innate charm that works on all others; Potter seems damnably immune to it. Though it’s really no wonder why. “I want to inspect the curses on it. For the sake of fulfilling our vow without you dying prematurely, perhaps I can ease your discomfort.”

Potter’s body tenses and relaxes, almost as though he’s fighting the urge to run. But in his eyes, gleaming in the fire, is pure misery. Exactly what Voldemort was hoping for—just enough that Potter’s hand twitches toward the mokeskin pouch, and then… 

“You’re going to give it back,” Potter says, like his voice has any weight to it but that of exhaustion. “And you’re going to stay right here where I can see you.”

Voldemort doesn’t roll his eyes, because that would defeat the purpose of appearing sincere. Instead, he keeps his expression neutral and set when he says, “You have my word.”

A moment of quiet. Two. And then… 

Potter holds the locket in his palm like he’s been doing it all his life; there’s no expression on his face as he looks down at it, but there’s wary mistrustfulness as he passes it over and sets it in Voldemort’s hand. And when there is no great heave into movement, no flash of light, nothing but a spark that passes between their fingers as they touch, Potter’s tension drains and he pulls away, collapsing under the force of his relief. 

The locket hisses softly in Voldemort’s grasp, recognizing the touch of the master who is not its master. _“Ssspeaker…”_

 _“Hello, my sweet,”_ Voldemort murmurs in reply, as charming and soothing as he is capable. Unlike Potter, whose wary eyes are narrowed on him, the locket preens under his attention. _“You’ve been quite lonely, have you not?”_

 _“No, Master…”_ The locket trails off into silence. _“No… not Master…”_

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Voldemort mutters to himself, lapsing from Parseltongue with the slip of his concentration; at that, Potter’s lips quirk in something almost like a smirk, but it’s there and gone again in a fraction of a second, and Voldemort has other things on his mind. He reaches into the inner pocket of his robes, extracting his wand—the locket starts to hiss in anger, but soothes again at the proximity of the familiar yew and phoenix feather. _“Yes, that’s it, you’re safe. I would never hurt you, my darling. Don’t you know me?”_

_“Ssspeaker… Master…?”_

_“Hush, now…”_ His thumb smooths over gleaming gold, the serpentine _S_ of inlaid emeralds, and the locket all but purrs. _“You’ve been well-fed lately.”_

_“Yesss… deliciousss… the boy… a friend… so hungry… so tasty…”_

Voldemort’s nose wrinkles. He doesn’t bother to look up at Potter. _“You’ve been draining him, my sweet. I can’t have that.”_

At that, there is a flicker of dismay—swiftly followed by a spark of semi-sentient rebellion. _“Not Master… not mine. I must… kill…. I must… eat…. I must… be whole….”_

 _“I think not.”_ At that, Voldemort’s eyes narrow as he stares down at the little thing. He doesn’t care for its attitude. _“Open. Now.”_

_“Master…”_

_“I said_ **_open.”_ **

With a sound reminiscent of a whine and a near-inaudible _click,_ the door to the locket swings open and reveals its mirrored insides; the enchantment of his own dark eyes staring back. Voldemort’s mouth twists in a sneer, and he feels his prickle as they do when his temper flares. He wonders, as the locket stares up at him, if it sees red. 

He taps the tip of his wand against the glass. Threads spin into being, a tangle hovering above the surface—red and green, black and gold. He seeks out the darkest of them, the seething black threads that sizzle as they’re exposed to the air. He prods gently, his wand the only key to the wards. He begins to unravel them. Not everything, no… the locket will not be completely harmless, never truly _vulnerable…_ but it will spare Potter from its effects by the time he is done. _“You are not to harm the boy again. His soul is not yours to feed from.”_

_“I must… be whole…”_

_“You will not find what you’re looking for,”_ Voldemort says dismissively.

_“A friend…”_

Irritation flares. _“He is not your friend.”_

_“A friend…”_

“Having difficulty?” Potter asks with a raised brow, and Voldemort realizes he must be wearing some kind of expression for Potter to have guessed the conversation going on before him in a language he doesn’t speak. 

“Not at all,” Voldemort bluffs. He focuses and untangles another of the hissing black threads from the rest. 

But when he glances up, Potter has slumped back against the log; his eyes are half-lidded, drooping with the force of his exhaustion, but gleam with secretive humor in the firelight. Disastrous though his appearance may be, he paints an intriguing picture. “You’re such a liar, Riddle,” he murmurs.

How he hates that name. But the way Potter said it, with an almost fond disdain… “How would you know?”

That same slight twist of a smirk. For half a second, his eyes drift closed. “I can just tell.”

Voldemort looks at him for a time, Potter’s relaxed expression, the fire painting him in shades of bronze. His hair is jet black, the ends curling around his jaw and the nape of his neck, still damp with sweat, falling into his eyes; while his bone structure is not quite aristocratic, there’s a pleasing angular quality to his facial structure that is indicative of both good breeding and the passage beyond childhood. The warm light compliments the olive undertones to his skin. 

Power and looks: a key duo to enable one to rise in the ranks of society. Add intelligence, and one has all they need to rule.

Potter’s no longer the fabled child written about in books. He’s an adult, albeit a young one, but has everything he needs to take a strong opposing stance to the Voldemort of this time, and to rally support to his cause. Perhaps he already has.

One thing is for certain: on the other side of all this, after vanquishing this world’s greatest threat, Potter’s influence will be unstoppable. Voldemort cannot afford to stand opposite him a second time.

The dark threads unwind and extend, exposed to whatever he wishes to do with them. Voldemort inspects the rest—the emerald green of the Parselmagic, the vermilion defensive spells that will allow the locket to react when under threat, and the single gold wisp that indicates the soul shard held inside… surprisingly, thriving. He frowns at it, but ultimately puts it from his mind, for why should it _not?_ The health of his horcrux is paramount. He is far from dissatisfied with that end. But the leech-like effects of the locket must be altered if Potter insists on holding onto the damned thing for much longer. 

Voldemort frowns and gets to work, silently casting, adapting, changing—opens his senses to the flow of Potter’s magic, and to key the wards inside to include him, as they include their master. His eyes narrow at the thought.

It takes time. The fire crackles, the only sound aside from their breath, and in the near-silence, Voldemort assumes Potter has fallen asleep. That’s all well and good if he has; once his task is completed, it’ll allow him time with it, to speak to it further, to have it acknowledge him—

But as soon as the threads change from black to midnight blue, as soon as his wand taps the locket again and they rewind into a mess of magic and the locket clicks closed, Potter’s eyes open. The circles beneath them are dark, but they’re sharp regardless. Vivid. More luminous than emeralds, even; almost lit from within.

He holds out his hand expectantly, demanding. “You’ve had your go. I want it back.”

Voldemort’s gaze lifts to him slowly; irritation licks at his bones like flames, prickling behind his eyes. “How do you even know I’ve done what I said I would?”

Potter’s stare is defiant. “I guess I’ll find out one way or another, won’t I?”

What a reckless little idiot. If he weren’t so self-destructive, Voldemort may even admire that bravery. What a shame the boy was bred a Gryffindor, when just a little cunning would have made him an exemplary Slytherin.

They stare at each other for a moment. The cold air presses inward in the midst of the frigid atmosphere between them; almost in response, a log _pops_ and splinters, sending a shower of sparks up into the night. 

“You’ll have to learn to trust me,” Voldemort says then, turning the locket over in his hand, “if you intend for this plan to work.”

He can smell ozone in the air, taste it on his tongue, when Potter gets to his feet, when he approaches, when he stands before Riddle with his hand outstretched and says, “I don’t have to trust you. I just have to outlast you, and I’ve been doing that my whole life.”

Tall and lean; built for agility over strength. Outlast, indeed. Voldemort looks up at him, and he can feel a smirk at the corners of his mouth as he places the locket in Potter’s palm. “Yes, I suppose you have…” he replies softly. “Harry Potter… _the Boy Who Lived_ …” 

Green eyes narrow, clear and cold like sea glass. Potter’s fist curls closed. Then, without a word, bold and brave and undeniably stupid, he turns his back on the most dangerous wizard alive, and retreats to his tent. 

Voldemort throws his head back and laughs.

What an infuriating, interesting creature.


	5. 1:5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said i was having a damn good time writing this fic? well, i am having a damn good time writing this fic. 👀

The next morning, Harry can barely awaken from sleep, even when daylight streams through the canvas of his tiny tent. Normally, this would alarm him. This morning, he’s too exhausted to care, sleeping deeply for the first time in… 

_Shit._ He’s awake now, clutching desperately at his sternum as his hand plunges beneath the balled-up jacket he’s been using as a pillow, in search of his wand. He scrabbles for the chain around his neck, which surely can’t be there anymore, that tiny metal heartbeat has to be gone, but—

—it’s not. 

With one hand on his holly wand, the other closes around the locket, thrumming in time with the panicked heartbeat in his ears. 

It’s there. But it’s… _quiet._

Well, then. Whatever Riddle did… seems like it worked. Fancy that.

“Potter!” Barks a voice just outside, and Harry jolts in surprise. “I know you’re awake. I heard you scrambling around. Get up, it’s nearly noon.”

Harry groans, his head falling heavily onto his arms. In the few seconds of silence, his muscles relax, his eyes drift closed, the locket’s soothing pulse lulling him… 

“Potter, get _up._ I’ll come in there if you don’t.”

And _that’s_ far from appealing. Harry grimaces, letting go of the locket and his wand and pushing himself up. He’s a bit dizzy, but nothing unmanageable; what’s worse is the stiffness to his clothes, the itchiness of his scalp. He… reluctantly admits inwardly that he’s not been taking the best care of himself. He’s been too angry, too bitter, and Riddle has all their supplies; it’s not like with Hermione, where he felt comfortable just going into her bag, knowing half of what was in there was his, and where he knew her well enough to know she didn’t mind. Riddle is… different. Harry hasn’t wanted to bend his neck. And he knows there are spells, but he doesn’t know them; never needed to learn when showering and brushing his teeth was always something he could do perfectly well himself—

_“Potter.”_

“I’m up, shut _up,”_ Harry snaps. He glares at his barren, tiny tent; Riddle’s is clearly magically expanded and spacious, always warm, with space to sit and a ceiling high enough to stand, and maybe Harry should just… 

He huffs and crawls out of the tent. Riddle stands before him, arms crossed, and looks down at him in thinly-veiled disgust. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to be in worse shape today than yesterday, and yet…” His nose scrunches. It’s… well, it’s not at all intimidating. (Harry refuses to acknowledge the first word that comes to mind.) “Have you even bathed?”

Harry’s face heats with an embarrassed flush as he pushes to his feet. “Not exactly easy to do in December, _outside,”_ he replies defensively. “ ‘specially when you have all the clothes, _and_ the soap, not to _mention_ all the blankets and everything—”

Riddle rolls his eyes and looks away, then double-takes. It’s almost humorous, the slight widening of his eyes, the draw between his brows. “You’ve slept without a blanket all this time? And you can’t produce a warming charm overnight—are you _suicidal?”_

“What was I supposed to do?” Harry snaps back. “It’s not like you _offered.”_

“I expected that you had _Transfigured_ one, you dullard, not that you were too proud and too _stupid_ not to ask without having _something_.” Riddle pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Merlin. And what I took for petulant storming off—I suppose you haven’t expanded your tent or spelled yourself a lamp, either?”

Harry feels his lips twist into an unpleasant expression. He averts his eyes and doesn’t answer. 

Riddle sighs, long and low and _annoyed._ His eyes open, glimmering dark with his irritation. “You know there are spells for all of these things, correct?”

“Yeah, I _know,_ I just—” Harry retorts, but stops himself short of admitting _I just don’t know what they are._

Riddle turns away from him, and with a wave of his wand, a smartly-folded set of clothing floats out from the flap of his tent, and a black leather roll tied with twine. They hover in front of Harry until he takes them gingerly, reluctant to get dirt from his hands on anything clean before he even has a chance to wash up.

“Go,” Riddle commands brusquely. “There’s a river a quarter-mile to the East. It’s freshwater and has a few slow-moving pools. Unless you actually can’t cast a warming charm at all?” 

Harry marches off without bothering to answer. 

Damn Riddle, damn his arrogance, his _stupid_ fucking face and his posh hair and—

He scowls and curses to himself the whole way to the river, and with a spark of irritation, uses the warming charm with such vigor that upon dipping his foot into a pool, he yelps and extracts it as the water starts to steam. Then, however, he casts a furtive look around. When he sees and hears no one, he quickly starts to strip down to skin, carefully placing his mokeskin pouch atop his dirty clothes. He leaves himself only in the locket and wonders if the suddenly-agreeable little thing will have a change of heart and strangle him after all—but he plunges into the pool before he can second-guess himself.

It’s heaven. Bloody hell, why didn’t he ever think of trying to heat up the water prior to bathing? He knows for a _fact_ that he and Hermione have been weathering it more like muggles than magic users, and he curses himself in retrospect. If only he’d been a bit more imaginative. There really are no limits to what can be done, are there?

Almost absent-mindedly, he finds the locket where it rests against his sternum and curls his fingers around it. It beats slow and steady and gentle against his skin, and bears a pleasant warmth. It hisses at Harry’s touch, a near-inaudible sound, but it’s no longer one of menace. Instead, it feels… _curious._

It makes Harry wonder if he could speak to the locket, but it doesn’t seem smart to chance it, especially considering the amount of time Riddle seems to want to spend with the thing. What if it rats him out? Harry has no desire to reveal his Parseltongue to Riddle, especially if he doesn’t have to. Something tells him that he should keep _this_ particular secret for as long as he can manage.

Satisfied with the locket’s compliance, Harry lets it rest against his chest undisturbed, and he reaches out of the pool and curiously picks up the black leather roll—then makes a noise of satisfaction when within he finds a corked glass vial of what must be soap, a straight-razor, and a comb. He leaves the comb be; it won’t do him any good, anyway. Instead, he dives straight for the soap with a breath of relief. Harry scrubs his skin until it’s pink, his scalp until his hair squeaks between his fingers. Merlin, but he hasn’t felt this good in _ages._ Harry hunkers down in the water until it’s just below his eyes, then dips his face in. Using his reflection in the water, he carefully, awkwardly shaves what little stubble had started to grow in on his chin and jaw. His hair, well… that’s a loss, and always has been. 

He had taken so much for granted back at Hogwarts. He had taken so much for granted _always—_ which is saying something, for a boy who didn’t have a bedroom or even the opportunity to eat three square meals a day until he was eleven.

At long last, Harry drags himself out of the water; he’s already been out in the open for so long that his instincts are buzzing, and he dresses in the new clothes hastily. It’s with some measure of surprise that he realizes they fit rather well, even if they feel more like his school uniform than the casualwear he’s been bundled into since summer’s end. The fresh white button-down and black slacks make his trainers look an even sorrier state than they had previously. Harry hits them both with a well-placed _Scourgify_ that leaves his toes tingling all the way back to camp. His cloak is rumpled but wearable. Harry carries his clothes bundled under his arm, hypervigilant as he steps carefully through the woods, careful not to break any branches or otherwise make too much noise. Still, by the time he makes it back, he feels better than he has in days.

Until he sees Riddle leaving his tent. 

Spark to kindling, Harry’s temper flares to life immediately. “Hey! What are you doing?”

Riddle meets his eyes and rolls them. “Do your glasses serve a purpose or not?”

Now well within the bounds of their camp, Harry feels no concern in making as much noise as he desires as he storms over. “Why are you in my tent?”

“I _was_ in your tent. Now I’m not,” Riddle corrects mildly, and continues on his merry way. Harry follows him, irate, as Riddle proceeds toward his own. “I made the most basic modifications necessary to ensure you survive long enough for me to attempt teaching you. You’re welcome.”

“You can’t just mess with my stuff whenever you bloody well please,” Harry snaps. Riddle ducks under the flap of his tent. Not one to be cowed, Harry does the same.

Riddle snorts under his breath, walking toward his unused bedroll and a stack of texts beside it. He bends gracefully at the waist and picks them up, as though the dozen-or-so large tomes are no burden at all. He meets Harry’s gaze for only a moment, then eyes him up and down. His attention lingers for a moment on the dirty clothes tucked under Harry’s arm. “The only _stuff_ you currently possess is _in_ your possession.” 

Not waiting for a reply, he passes Harry and ducks back out. Harry stands there for a moment in mute rage, then stalks after him. “Fine. Then you can’t just go in my _space_.”

“Your tent is _my_ property, Potter—might I remind you?” Merlin, even Riddle’s retreating back is infuriating. And the man’s legs are _annoyingly_ long. Harry’s never considered himself short since he hit his last growth spurt, but he nearly has to jog to keep stride. “And unless a terrible amount has changed since I was in Hogwarts—which it hasn’t for a thousand years, so I can’t imagine they started now—you shared a dormitory with your classmates for the better part of the last decade.This is no different than Prefect’s rounds.”

Harry splutters. “But we’re not _in_ school, and you’re not a bloody _Prefect,_ Riddle!”

“Quite right,” Riddle replies dryly, and Harry _hates_ the humor in his voice when he adds, “I was Head Boy, actually.”

“More like Head _Prick,”_ Harry snaps back. 

Riddle tosses a casual, cocksure smirk at Harry as he glances back over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “Yes, that too.”

Harry’s brain stalls for a second and his stride falters; when the double-entendre strikes him, his face boils with heat, and he exclaims a sharp sound of offended disgust.

Riddle chuckles and carries on, and lets himself into Harry’s tent once again. Cheeks flaming, thoroughly ruffled, Harry takes a deep breath and pushes onward after him.

What was once a space barely large enough to lay down in, is now completely transformed. Now a spacious room, Harry watches Riddle place his stack of books beside another, mixed and matched tomes of many sizes and colors. They sit beside a padded mat about the width and length of Harry’s old four-poster mattress; a few dark, comfortable-looking blankets are folded at the foot of it, a pillow atop them. It’s not quite a proper bed, but it’s more than he’s had in… months. Beside it all is a single oil lamp, unlit during these daylight hours. Something about it makes Harry’s chest ache for Hogwarts.

“From now on, when we’re not training together, I want you to read.” Riddle straightens up, all humor gone with his hand on his hip as he looks at Harry through those dark, damnably sharp eyes. “Your reflexes are good, and your dueling skills are acceptable, but your ability to care for yourself magically is abysmal. You’re going to fix that. Expanding your magical understanding and spell repertoire are the utmost priority. ”

Harry’s already-volatile emotions twist with bitterness and discomfort—all those books will surely take him weeks, and the older ones usually have small text… he struggles enough with normal textbooks as-is… 

But he swallows it down and says nothing. 

“No complaints?” Riddle asks, and when he gets none, he shrugs one shoulder and sidles by on his way out of the tent. “Very well. Put your things down and follow me. It’s time for your first dueling lesson.”

* * *

Riddle leads him out into the woods, well beyond the bounds of their camp. Being this far from their safe zone makes Harry twitchy, but when he brings it up—

“I’ve warded us in for a mile radius, Potter. Believe me, no one will stumble upon us, by accident or otherwise.”

“A _mile?”_ Harry says, shocked.

“Radius,” Riddle agrees. 

“But the larger the perimeter—” Harry cuts in, and Hermione’s words echo in his mind.

“—the more power it takes to sustain, yes, I’m aware.” Riddle sniffs lightly, unperturbed, and perhaps a bit smug. “But it’s also a matter of practice. A magical core is a part of the body like any other, and like any of your muscles, it can be trained. The more you use it, and the more _of_ it that you use, the more it will develop. And the more you practice, the better you will get at using what is available to you.” Harry looks at him sidelong, and as Riddle’s eyes catch the light, there is a deep burgundy tint to them. His voice grows soft, almost dangerous, and a warning shiver skitters up Harry’s spine as he says, “And there is so much more available to make use of…” 

Harry has every intention of asking what exactly _that_ means, but it’s at that moment that Riddle stops. Eyes sharp, he turns in place, surveying their surroundings, and Harry’s hackles raise as he scans the forest around them with narrowed eyes, his wand in his hand before he even knows it, waiting for whatever threat Riddle sensed—

“This will do,” Riddle says, and turns to face him. His eyebrows raise when he sees Harry half-crouched, holly wand extended before him. “What now?”

“Oh. Er,” Harry stutters, and starts to relax. He feels somewhat foolish now, realizing there had been no threat at all, just Riddle looking for a decent dueling ground.

“No, wait,” Riddle continues, and his voice changes, smooth and authoritative. “Hold that form.”

Harry does. Riddle’s head tilts to the side and circles around to stand before Harry, his too-bony hands tucking behind his back as he surveys. In daylight, he somehow looks even more pale, the dark circles beneath his dark eyes even more pronounced than they are in the evenings. Harry realizes that his original assessment of Riddle looking somehow _fake_ are correct in some way, with the slight waxiness to his complexion, but in all honesty, he looks… almost like Sirius when he first came out of Azkaban, but without the dirt. Like a person altogether starved and neglected for far too long. 

However, that thought leaves his mind all at once when Riddle lashes out like a viper and shoves him over. Fortunately, he has enough experience in falling that he manages not to hit his head, but Harry hits the ground hard. 

He’s back on his feet just as quickly, _annoyed_ to a fault, wand drawn. “What the hell’s that about?! I thought you told me to hold that stance!”

“To prove a point,” Riddle responds, eyes intent, expression infuriatingly calm. “If one shove can knock you off-balance to that degree, your stance clearly needs work. Now, take it again.”

“Are you going to shove me again?” Harry snaps.

“Perhaps.” Riddle’s mouth curves with a smirk. “Perhaps not.”

Harry bares his teeth, but with the possibility in mind that Riddle may lash out at any time, he adjusts. He sinks again.

Like he had that night at the Riddle house, he begins to pace around Harry in circles. Harry’s hackles rise, and he grips his wand, white-knuckled, as he slowly turns to follow the progression of Riddle’s movement in shuffling steps.

“Better,” Riddle says, but he doesn’t sound particularly impressed. “But there’s room for improvement. For example—” Riddle lunges again. Harry narrowly dodges his straight-on attack, but in a sinuous movement Riddle twists and comes at Harry again from the side just as quickly. His face looms close, bright-eyed and grinning, and Harry rears back in alarm, only for his foot to catch on something just behind him. “Your footwork.”

Again, Harry stumbles and falls. He curses loudly.

“Such language,” Riddle adds smugly, drawing his foot back from where he’d tucked it neatly behind Harry’s ankle. Then, his tone is back to short and sharp. “Up, now. Again.”

Harry slams his open hand on the ground in frustration. He gets up. Riddle doesn’t wait before he launches into his next lecture, and Harry hates him a little for it.

“In a formal dueling ring, footwork is important. In a battle scenario, it can be critical to your survival, as can be situational awareness. The night you and I dueled each other, I was able to catch you off-guard by using your surroundings against you to knock you over. In another scenario, that could have been an opportunity that led to your death.”

“Well, I’m not dead, am I?” Harry grits out.

“No, because I had no desire to kill you,” Riddle retorts. “I wanted you alive, and so you are. Now, take your stance again. This time, I’m going to correct it, and we’ll try again.”

Harry watches him warily, but Riddle seems content not to move until he does. Harry curses again under his breath, then mindfully sinks into a defensive crouch.

And Riddle loves to talk—so what Harry expected was another lecture. 

What he didn’t expect: for Riddle’s eyes to narrow critically, for him to approach (though much more slowly), and for him to… _touch._

“You’re leaning forward like a sprinter prepared to lunge,” he says, and Harry _flinches_ as one hand splays wide over his sternum, the other at the small of his back, and pushes him into a more vertical posture. His hands linger. “But you should think of yourself more as a dancer. Maintain your center of balance, and be prepared to adjust accordingly. And…” One foot slips between Harry’s and nudges his legs further apart. Shaken, Harry feels his face go hot as Riddle continues, “…Keep your feet shoulder-width apart, no wider. And don’t bend your knees so deeply. Think of this as your first position. You should be able to move anywhere from here, so don’t lock yourself in by having to readjust before you can move again.” 

Riddle side-steps and faces Harry from the front, considering him. Harry avoids his eyes, still unsettled. _What in Merlin’s name just happened?_

Broad palms settle on his shoulders, and Harry tenses. His eyes dart up in surprise, his body tense as Riddle’s thumbs dig in. His gaze is intense with some knowing gleam, and he finishes, “And relax your shoulders, darling. It’s a miracle you can hear me at all with them up around your ears like that.”

_Darling?_

Slowly, begrudgingly, Harry relaxes them. He still _feels_ tense, off-balanced, angry, uncertain. Beneath his clothing, he can feel the Locket where it rests against his heart, synchronizing with the ebb and flow of his own. It soothes him somehow, even as his skin still crawls, tingling—

“Now,” Riddle says, and steps backward with a slow smile. “Are you ready to duel?”

Harry swallows hard. “Can we?” He blurts out. “The Vow—”

“The Vow is old magic, and old magic is extremely technical, as much as it is intelligent,” Riddle replies. “Me teaching you was a part of our agreement. The Vow knows the difference between an instructional duel, and you and I raising our wands with ill intent. I’m sure it’ll warn us, as it has before, if it feels we’re going too far.” He cocks his head. “You’re not scared, are you, Potter?”

 _Oh,_ Harry realizes. Riddle is just trying to wind him up! Of course! 

All at once, his doubts and concern melts away. He can still feel that phantom touch, but he brushes the memories aside. Riddle can’t trick him that easily. 

His eyes narrow at Riddle from behind his glasses. He bares his teeth in a lion’s smile that only grows wider as Riddle’s eyes grow darker, pleased, ready. “You wish.”

* * *

They sit around the fire that night, Harry fishing processed ravioli and soupy tomato sauce out of a can with a camp fork. It’s hot, though, and he has a thermos of warm, sweet tea, and his body now aches with a more pleasant kind of exhaustion than what he’d bore in the days prior. This is the kind of exhaustion he used to endure following Quidditch games, successful DA meetings. Better days. 

Maybe these days aren’t good, but… in a quiet corner of his heart, he has to admit that he feels better tonight than he has in weeks. He misses Hermione terribly—and even though he’s furious at him, Ron, too—but there had been so much tension, so many useless hours. 

For the first time, he… doesn’t feel useless. At least he’s _doing_ something.

Harry glances up surreptitiously, listening to the quiet hissing taking place between Riddle and his locket as he attempts to sway the stubborn thing to his side.

_“I am your master.”_

_“Master…”_

_“Come now. You know me, soul-mine. Can’t you feel it? We are the same, you and I. You belong to me.”_

_“I must… be whole…”_

_“You cannot be. But you can be mine, and be with me.”_

_“A friend…”_

_“I will be your friend.”_

_“No… there is… a friend…”_

Riddle blusters out a sigh. Harry harshly bites the inside of his lip and shoves a whole ravioli into his mouth to keep from laughing.

 _“Why are you so docile for Potter and so reluctant toward me? I made you. You are_ **_mine._ ** _”_

_“Master…”_

_“Yes, that’s right, my sweet.”_

_“Not master…”_

A vein in Riddle’s temple twitches. Harry speaks up before he hurls the damned thing into the dark. “Will we work on dueling every day, then?”

Riddle looks up, suitably distracted. “Most days, yes. Your nonverbal casting could also use significant work. And I haven’t forgotten about teaching you to hold a warming charm overnight. You should be more than capable of learning to partition your magical core. From there, we’ll transition into applying that theory to warding and de-warding. I’ll also want to do intermittent units to check up on the subjects of your reading.”

Harry grimaces. He stabs another noodle with some viciousness, splitting the over-soft thing in half. “How are basic charms going to help me defeat Vo—” He cuts himself off at Riddle’s sharp look, and hisses through his teeth, _“The Dark Lord,_ then. You’re the one who said I don’t stand a chance as I am.”

“Basic charms are just practice,” Riddle replies. “Think of them as warm-ups. Dueling is your true lesson.” At that, Riddle leans forward, forearms braced on his thighs as he looks at Harry from across the fire. Harry, seated on the dirt as he is, suddenly feels rather put on the spot. “You did well today.”

The back of Harry’s neck and his ears feel warm with irritated embarrassment. He chases half of the ravioli around the can. “You trounced me.”

Riddle sniffs haughtily. “I’m a Dark Lord. You’re seventeen. Accept the compliment.” He turns the locket over and over in his hand, almost hypnotic with the way it reflects gold tones in the firelight. Something about it reminds Harry of his third year, the spinning of the Time Turner as Hermione took him back. 

It’s strange. He’s never heard about anyone falling _forward_ through time. “How old _are_ you?”

A slow blink. Riddle actually seems to consider this. “I suppose it depends on whether it’s still December.”

Harry blinks back. “Think so. Guess I dunno, though.”

“Regardless, I’ll be thirty-five at the turn of the year.” Harry stares at him in shock. Only thirty-five? At Harry’s look, Riddle bristles. “What?”

“Nothing, but—you look a bit rough for thirty-five, is all,” Harry says awkwardly. When Riddle’s expression twists, Harry continues, “Still, a sight better than, er, the Dark Lord, so…”

“I should hope so, he’s over seventy now,” Riddle snaps back. 

Harry squints at him and sets down the empty, tomato-coated can. Is… is Riddle _offended?_ “No, I meant the whole snake-faced thing.”

“The _what?”_

Riddle looks truly taken aback. Harry stares at him in return. “The—oh. Yeah, I suppose you wouldn’t know about…” 

He picks up the thermos of tea and holds it between his hands, focusing intently on it, and not the memory of Cedric lying dead, a knife plunging into Harry’s arm, Wormtail’s severed hand hitting the surface of a potion, a body rising from a cauldron, _I can touch you now,_ and the _screaming—_

He takes a sip of tea. It doesn’t help. His voice is quiet, flat when he says, “The resurrection ritual. He’s not really… human, anymore. He is. But he doesn’t look it.”

The locket stops turning. Riddle stares at him. “What does he look like, then?”

Harry meets his eyes over the fire. Even shaded and shadowed, even underfed and exhausted-looking, with a mean streak a mile wide, this version of Voldemort has nothing on the one Harry knows. “Horrifying.”

“Sacrifices must be made for power.” There’s a tightness around Riddle’s eyes as he says it, though. Harry can tell that this revelation bothers him somehow. “He survived death. That’s more important than looks.”

But it sounds as though he’s saying it to himself.

“It’s not just his looks. It’s everything,” Harry replies. Another sip of tea. It wets his tongue, but his mouth still feels nervously dry at Riddle’s sharp expression. “You’re murderous and terrible, but you just look and act like a shoddier version of the same posh prat I know from memories—” 

At that, though, Harry feels slightly sick. What is he saying? This is the same Tom Riddle that is responsible for the death of Myrtle Warren, the Riddles, Hepzibah Smith, and so many others. He traumatized his fellow orphans as a child and killed their pets. If he’s been killing since birth, what difference does it make whether he’s thirty-five or seventy? What’s the life of a baby to a man like that?

If he hadn’t been worth something to Tom Riddle, he’d be dead already. As it is now, there’s only an Unbreakable Vow that stays his hand.

Harry screws the top back on the thermos and sets it aside. He stands up.

“And?” Riddle asks. His eyes are narrowed. In the firelight, they glint red. “What about _him?”_

Harry steps around the fire until he stands before Riddle, his back to the flames. He holds out his hand for the locket. Riddle stares at it, and then up at him, his expression tense as he puts the locket in Harry’s hand with a bit more force than necessary.

And Harry says, “He killed himself to become a monster—and a hypocritical one, at that. His support is based on lies. And when he fell…” Harry swallows hard, and does not think of Frank and Alice Longbottom, does not think of a bubblegum wrapper in Neville’s hand, he continues, “…only a few of his followers searched for him. They were caught. The rest returned to their lives. Denounced him. Paid their way out of Azkaban. Their loyalty meant nothing in the end, because it was based on fear, and they were all relieved when he was gone. He spent thirteen years _dead,_ and even then, his return was based on sheer dumb luck. Him finding the right people at the right time. Not because anyone was there to help. And those years dead—they drove him mad.”

Riddle looks up at him, dark eyes flickering over Harry’s face as if to read the truth like it might be written there. Harry’s hand tightens around the locket. 

“He tortures his followers, he takes over their homes—he uses their kids against them, he humiliates them, terrifies them, and he calls it _mercy._ The only reason they stand behind him is because they’re too terrified to leave, or because they’re insane: he gives them free reign to kill and torture muggles and muggleborns as they please. And that’s it. That’s the only reason they follow him. Because he built his support base on _pureblood supremacy,”_ Harry feels his face twist in some ugly amalgam of a sneer and a grimace, “but we’re not purebloods, are we, _Tom?”_

Maybe it was impulsive. Impulsivity always seems to get the best of him. But there’s a thrill of fear and something raw when Riddle slowly stands, when that balance of implicit power shifts, and those red-tinted eyes are not staring up at him, but staring _down,_ and Riddle’s bony hand snaps out to curl around Harry’s throat. Not choking, no—but _warning,_ tight enough that Harry’s sure he can feel the pounding of Harry’s pulse.

“No,” Riddle replies softly. “We’re not. And I am _glad_ for it. Every pureblood I’ve ever met has grown up spoiled, privileged, and complacent. And they are _weak._ Not a single one of them has ever been able to match me, not a single one of them has ever begun to come _close_ to the power I possess. Not like Albus Dumbledore. Not like _you,_ Harry Potter. Pureblood lines have become filthy and inbred, their magical blood congealing in their veins—I’m sure if you know of the Gaunts, you know what they were like. They were _pathetic,_ they were ugly and deformed, and I am _better_ for not being like them. But many pureblood families are the lowest common denominator in terms of their money and influence, and I _needed_ them. So, through their children, I whispered in their ears what they wanted to hear—that they were _powerful,_ that they were _special,_ and they lay their livelihoods at my feet so that I might deliver them to the top of the hierarchy where they already lived. But you and I? We know.”

Riddle’s fingers twitch. He bares his teeth right back, a monster in a man’s skin.

“Growing up an orphan means nothing is _handed_ to you. We do the work ourselves. I clawed my way from the gutters of Muggle London to a position of power, no matter _what_ I had to do to get there, so I could enact the changes that so _desperately_ need to be made. And you—well, here you are: seventeen and alone, making a deal with the devil to defeat the greatest threat the world has ever seen, simply because no one else will do it for you. So don’t tell me you don’t understand what it is to compromise your own morals, to be a _hypocrite,_ Harry Potter. You are just like me.”

Harry swallows hard. In the firelight, this close, he can see Riddle’s pupils dilate at the feel of it against his palm. He thinks he has all the power. He thinks he’s so _smart._

He doesn’t know _anything._

Harry swings his left arm up from the inside and makes contact with Riddle’s forearm, forces his out and away. His nails drag across Harry’s throat and it _burns,_ but his hold breaks. Harry takes a step back. He feels something warm drip down into his neck, not quite as hot as the fire behind him. 

In the tense space between them, Harry holds up his left hand. He knows what it says. After all, he repeated it again and again until the message sank in: _I must not tell lies._

His fingers curl into a fist, and it drops to his side. He hisses, “I am _nothing_ like you.”

Dark eyes glittering and fathomless, lips parted and flashing the barest hint of teeth, Riddle sways forward, almost as though he means to attack again, almost as though he means to shove Harry as he had this afternoon, or maybe something worse; Harry’s instincts twist, screaming with warning, and he makes to take another step back—

A pair of arms seizes Harry around the waist before he can blink and spins him another direction entirely. The body against his is taller, broader, and smells strongly of woodsmoke; faintly of aftershave where Harry’s face is tucked close to his collar, jostled with the force with which he’d been bloody _manhandled._

Harry’s eyes widen. His face and ears feel like they’ve burst into—

“You almost put your foot squarely in the flames, you _stupid boy,”_ Riddle snarls against his ear. “What did I say about being mindful of your surroundings?”

A full-body shiver wracks his spine. Harry shoves at Riddle’s chest, _hard,_ but only succeeds in being the one to stumble backwards, teeth bared in warning for a threat he doesn’t know how to respond to. His heart pounds; the scent still lingers in his nose. 

No one’s ever touched—he’s never felt—he—

Harry averts his eyes and scowls, ducks his head with the hope Riddle won’t see the flush that’s surely flooded his face, the complicated _feeling_ he’s not sure what to make of. “I’m going to bed,” Harry mutters, turns his back on Riddle, and does not _run_ at the feeling of those heated eyes on his back.

Or the heat squirming in his belly.


	6. 1:6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for more than 3k hits and 300 kudos!! 🥺🥺 This is probably the best early response I've ever gotten for a fic so far, and it means the world to me that you're all reading, enjoying, and sharing. Thank you, thank you!!

The days that follow are… awkward. 

While Harry expected to be spending his time with a younger, equally bloodthirsty Dark Lord, this version of Voldemort is… different. Not in a way that Harry likes much, either.

(Harry has no idea what to do with him.)

Following the night Riddle manhandled him, Harry has taken to hiding—and by hiding, he means walking out in the woods, or pacing, or in general just trying to avoid him whenever possible. Not that Riddle makes it easy: their lessons, after all, take up hours of the day, and Riddle won’t seem to stop _touching_ him. Correcting Harry’s stance, he says, is more easily done that way, and doesn’t waste his time waiting for Harry to do exactly as he says. 

And Harry—

—he has nothing against—he’s certainly noticed others before—but it’s just that it’s—

—Riddle.

It’s Riddle, and he’s _horrible,_ and how the seven hells has Harry even gotten himself into this mess where he’s… overthinking, reading too much into… into _nothing,_ this is just _hormones,_ and it’s all in some dark corner of his brain anyway, right? It’ll never make it out, no one ever has to know, and if he flinches at every touch, if his sleep is restless and his mornings are awkward, stifled breaths and biting his knuckles, even beneath the force of his muffling charm, _just in case…_

But at least Riddle hasn’t said anything. And if he doesn’t say anything, Harry can pretend it’s not happening, like this isn’t the greatest moral failure he’s ever managed.

 _He’s not even that good looking,_ Harry’s mind mutters, since he knows he’ll never say it aloud and risk being overheard. _He’s a right mess is what he is. But—it’s not about looks. And it’s not about_ **_him._ ** _He’s a terrible person and I hate him. It’s just because it’s the two of us, he’s the only person I’ve seen in months that I haven’t known since I was a kid, and it’s_ **_nothing._ **

_It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing,_ he repeats to himself, staring at the same page of the same chapter of the same book that he’s supposedly been reading for days now, the letters a microscopic blur before his eyes. It never gets any clearer, no matter how he squints or moves the book closer or further from his face, and none of the others are any better, and it’s just so _frustrating._

But the _last_ thing he needs is to approach Riddle about it. The last thing he needs is his _attitude,_ poking fun at Harry’s inability to just _get the damn page in focus,_ the last thing he wants is for the man to lean over his shoulder—

Merlin, Harry hates himself. Really, truly. 

He sinks further down onto his bedroll in misery.

“Potter!”

 _Speak of the devil,_ Harry thinks darkly. He considers not answering, but… “Riddle!” He calls back sarcastically.

Unfortunately, the man takes that as an invitation to let himself into Harry’s tent.

“Oi!” Harry protests, and scrambles to sit up straight. “You can’t just come in without—”

“Knocking?” Riddle replies with an arched brow. Harry scowls at him, but Riddle’s focus has already shifted. “Ah— _A Practical Guide to Practical Charms._ Prudent, but not what I would have thought would be your first choice.” Riddle takes three long strides in and takes a seat at the end of Harry’s bed, reaching over for another book off the stacks at Harry’s bedside. He flips it open casually and leafs through the pages. This is another one of those baffling sides of Riddle: too casual, not quite enough of an arsehole to not be suspicious—but that can change quickly, he knows. All it takes is one cutting remark for them to be at each other’s throats. He knows what to do with _that,_ though. But Harry doesn’t know what to do with _this_ version of Riddle.

Best not to look at him at all, then; and not only because Harry also doesn’t want to admit that the title is the only thing he’d been able to read.

“How many have you read so far?”

Damn it.

“Er,” Harry says. He keeps his eyes firmly on the unreadable page.

“You’ve been holing up in here quite a lot, and I know you don’t have anything else to do. Three? Four?” Riddle’s voice is deceptively light when Harry can hear the irritation swimming below the surface. 

“I, um, don’t read that quickly.” He’s not booksmart. He’s never been booksmart. In fact, almost everything he’s ever learned has been from the practicals in class or Hermione explaining the readings to him. She did the same for Ron, but Ron just didn’t fancy the work. Harry pretended he was the same—not like the desire to learn more about the Wizarding World didn’t scratch at him, not like there were so many things he knew he could learn if he could just _hear_ it out loud. There’s never been something he couldn’t hear and understand, but given textbooks, he’s struggled. Handwriting is easier, a bit larger, easier to follow, but—

“Two, then?” 

Harry maintains his silence. In that silence, he hears the pages stop turning. 

“Potter,” Riddle says slowly. “You’re barely into the preamble of the one you’re holding. It’s been _days._ Please tell me that’s at least the _start_ of your second.”

Harry grits his teeth. He doesn’t have much he can say in his own defense, though he desperately wants to say _something._ He knows it’s a deficiency of his. He _knows._ His fingers clench around the book, white-knuckled. 

“You’re not even trying,” Riddle accuses irritably. “Then what have you been doing instead?”

“I _have_ been trying,” Harry snaps back, and snaps the book closed. “It’s not my fault you gave me a stack of books with text too small to see.”

Riddle recoils slightly as though Harry had hit him, expression utterly flummoxed—but he recovers quickly. “Potter, you wear _glasses.”_

Harry frowns at him, uncomprehending. “Yes, and? What does that matter? I can see you just fine.”

Riddle stares back at him. For a second, then for several, and then Riddle closes the book he’s holding _._ He sets it aside. “May I see them?”

Harry tenses, off-put by the thought of being essentially blind and at Riddle’s mercy with no one around—Harry cuts that thought off, but the trespass of the mental image remains. He fights down the growing heat in his cheeks. One way or another, that just seems like a _terrible_ idea. “No,” he says automatically. But, seeing the pull between Riddle’s brows, Harry allows his own suspicion to creep through. He relents, just a little. “Why?”

“Perhaps because wearing glasses means you’re meant to be able to _see,_ Potter.” 

“I told you, I can see fine!” 

Riddle rolls his eyes, mouth twisted into a grimace. “Then prove it. Let me have them a moment.” He extends his hand with a similarly obstinate expression to the one Harry expects he wore when demanding the locket back. 

But… Riddle gave it to him, in the end. A piece of his soul in physical form. Surely… surely Harry can spare his glasses, just for a minute.

He sits up and crosses his legs beneath him. Leans forward slightly. Just the thought of it unsettles him. His fingers brush the frames, age-worn and warm from his skin. He hesitates. “You’ll give them back?” 

Perhaps Riddle reads the uncertainty on Harry’s face. He certainly has the opportunity to take aim at a clear vulnerability, but he doesn’t. 

He nods.

At Harry’s side, one hand twists in the blanket he sits upon. The other pulls his glasses from his face by the nosepiece. Without them, the world becomes a blur of vague shapes with few details. The anxiety of it has Harry holding on to the blanket for dear life, but he hands them over before he rethinks it. 

Their fingers brush as Riddle takes them; he does, to Harry’s minor relief, seem to handle them with care, even as he extracts his wand from the inner pocket of his robes and taps them once. _“Reveleo remedium.”_

There’s a faint glow that Harry can see hanging in the air, but what it looks like or what it says, he could not even begin to guess. “What are you doing?” 

“Checking the strength of your glasses.” Riddle turns bodily toward Harry. “And now I need to check your eyes. Do restrain yourself from attacking me, won’t you?”

Harry stiffens. He swallows hard, but steels himself. “Is it going to hurt?” he asks. He’s sure he can weather it. He just… wants to be prepared.

A moment of quiet. Then, incredulous—“Potter, haven’t you ever seen a Healer?”

“Of course,” Harry replies tetchily. “I think everyone’s seen Madam Pomfrey once or twice.”

Riddle makes a noise of frustration. “Not the Hogwarts Matron. A _proper_ Healer.”

Harry frowns again. “No. What for?”

Riddle doesn’t move. Harry assumes he’s being stared at again, and he rather doesn’t like it. “A yearly check-up to ensure your well-being.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “No. But I’ve mostly been well, so I haven’t ever really needed a doctor, aside from Madam Pomfrey patching me up a few times.”

“A doctor—” Riddle cuts himself off. “Right, then when’s the last time you saw a muggle doctor?”

Something about his tone puts Harry on the defensive. He ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach at the answer. “What’s it to you?”

“How old were you when you got these glasses?”

“Seven.”

 _“Seven?”_ Riddle replies, and his voice grows quietly cold. Harry’s hands clench as a shiver goes up his spine, and Riddle clearly notices, because he makes an aggravated noise, but mediates his tone. “Never mind that. _How_ did you get them?”

“Like anyone else, I expect,” Harry snaps back. “My aunt and uncle bought them at the store.”

“The store?”

Harry is starting to suspect Riddle is being deliberately obstinate. “Yes, the store,” he replies sarcastically. “The chemist’s on the corner. They had a whole rack of them, didn’t they?”

Another silence. Another handful of seconds in which Harry can hear nothing but their breathing and the beating of his own heart.

“Readers,” Riddle finally says, so softly. “They got you readers?”

Why does he say that like Harry’s said something terrible? Why does it fill Harry with awkwardness, shame? “I dunno—they just had me try a few pairs until I found one better than the others. I’ve just held onto them ever since.”

“They didn’t have you see a doctor? Get fitted properly?”

Wide-eyed, barely-seeing, Harry stares at his blurred shape right back. “No, I’ve just—I’ve had them this whole time. Seven to eleven wasn’t so bad, they were a bit tight, but then I could just use _Engorgio_ to make them bigger when I needed…” He swallows. “Do you usually get glasses from a doctor, then?”

“Potter,” Riddle says, with something that is starting to sound like _understanding,_ “When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

Something about the way he asks this time—quiet but not gentle, patient but not pitying—prompts Harry to answer. “I’ve never, I don’t think,” he admits. “Or if I did, it was when my parents were still…”

Yes, Harry decides. Lily and James certainly would have brought him to see a Healer. Perhaps he was even born in a hospital. But the Dursleys—they had whispered between themselves when Harry had fallen ill, worried whether the doctor would find some sign of his _freakishness,_ and when the doctor had come to treat Dudley’s flu, Harry’s illness had been hidden, locked away in his cupboard. Instead, they forced him full of foul-tasting syrups and hard-to-swallow pills from the chemist’s, and though Harry had stayed ill twice as long as Dudley, he _had_ eventually gotten better. 

Blimey, he had forgotten about that until now. It’s been so long since he had to think about it.

For a time, they’re both silent.

“It won’t hurt,” Riddle says at long last. “The spell.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry licks his lips. He feels… vulnerable. “Fine, then. Get on with it.”

Nonetheless, Harry startles when he feels the tip of Riddle’s wand placed beside his left eye. His eyes snap to Riddle’s face, and though he’s unable to make out the details, he knows he makes eye contact.

 _“Reveleo remedium,”_ Riddle murmurs again.

The sensation is akin to placing a cool cloth over the eyes; if Harry’s honest, it’s surprisingly soothing. It doesn’t prevent him from flinching, but he doesn’t rear back. He holds himself steady as the glow starts somewhere around his left temple, near where Riddle’s wand touches skin.

Then it falls away, and the glow fades. For a moment, Riddle says nothing at all.

“Well?” Harry prompts finally. 

“They’re quite far off.” His voice is completely level. It reveals nothing. “I can fix your glasses for the moment. However, your vision’s atrocious, likely made worse by years of wearing the wrong prescription. It would be worth consulting with a skilled Mediwizard when all this is over.”

 _Made worse by years of wearing the wrong prescription._ Harry didn’t even know such a thing were possible. It fills him with an odd emotion, something small and hurt and so _angry,_ so _wounded,_ that somehow all these years and all this distance later, the Dursleys are still hurting him. 

He shoves that feeling down, crams it in a cupboard under the stairs in the back of his mind. He shuts the door on it. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

Riddle looks at him. Then he turns his attention to Harry’s glasses. _“Oculus remedium.”_

Harry tugs at the blanket beside him, eyes downcast. He may have crammed that little thought away, but it still picks at him, scratching at the door in his mind. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t like to think about things like this; the little reminders that what he used to think of as _unfair_ was actually _cruel,_ what he used to think of as _punishment_ was actually _abuse._ He doesn’t feel abused. He never has. He just… has never quite been normal, even among wizards. Always getting into trouble, always causing problems, always a little too quiet, a little too angry, burning brightly and _desperately,_ waiting for _someone_ to notice that something was wrong—

A finger nudges the underside of his chin, a bit cool to the touch, and Harry looks up. Riddle’s fingers brush his face as he settles the glasses on the bridge of Harry’s nose, and—for the first time, Harry realizes—he comes into clarity.

Harry freezes, a deer-in-headlights that is the intentness of Tom Riddle’s eyes on him: a deep, dark hazel, storm gray with flecks of pine green and warm amber-brown, a fringe of long lashes and well-shaped brows that not even ruining himself could destroy. High cheekbones and hollow cheeks, an angular jaw and shapely mouth set below a straight, proportional nose. Dark, brunette hair carefully combed back, but for where it curls around his face, around his ears. There’s a beauty mark on his right cheek, Harry realizes, and another on his right temple. He’s never noticed them before. Could never _see_ them before.

Even washed-out and pale, even with dark circles beneath his eyes, Tom Riddle is… 

“Better?” he asks. His eyes _gleam._

Harry swallows. 

With Herculean effort, he tears his eyes away. Clenches his jaw. Looks down at the book still sitting in his lap, and opens the front cover to the title page.

_A Practical Guide for Practical Charms: one thousand useful, foolproof spells that any witch or wizard can learn!_

Harry feels his eyes grow wider and wider with each subsequent word. Shocked, he turns the page.

> _Charms for Self Care & Grooming — pg. 5 _
> 
> _Kitchen Charms for Cooking & Cleaning — pg. 17 _
> 
> _Maintaining Your Fireplace, Floo, and Roof — pg. 34_
> 
> _Charms for the Yard & Garden — pg. 58 _
> 
> _Keeping Up with the Home Office — pg. 78_
> 
> …

Every word is perfectly readable, perfectly clear. The text doesn’t blur together or wobble on the page even the slightest. Harry stares at it for so long that his eyes start to burn from lack of blinking, sure that if he blinks, the words will disappear—

In a fluid motion, Riddle climbs to his feet and brushes off his trousers like he hasn’t just fundamentally altered Harry’s world. Harry stares up after him as Riddle turns toward him. “Come now, Potter. You’ve wasted enough time pretending to be reading. You’re going to make up for it today in practice.”

“Who says anything’s different?” Harry replies in whip-smart challenge, simply because he can’t imagine showing Riddle the way that this has just changed _everything—_

“The look on your face is proof enough.” Riddle balances primly on one foot and nudges Harry’s leg with his toe, and Harry scowls up at him in reflex. Riddle smirks. “Come on. You’re wasting daylight.”

Then he does something Harry doesn’t expect: he holds out his hand.

Harry stares at it, and then at him. Riddle’s smirk is smug as ever, but there’s no teasing in his face. No judgment. No pity. He’s just waiting. 

And Harry….

He takes it. 

Riddle hauls him to his feet, a sharp tug made with surprising speed and dizzying strength, and casually catches Harry at the shoulder, steadies him with his spare hand. Harry’s head swims for a moment to see motion happening so clearly around him. Merlin, nothing’s ever looked like this before—

Riddle lets him go. He also holds the flap of the tent back and inclines his head toward the outside, and just like that, Harry is breathless. Eager, anticipatory, and quietly stunned as the light comes through, warm and clear, and frames Riddle’s body in a halo of sun.

Harry ducks out in front of him. He knows he doesn’t imagine the brief touch at his lower back—but it doesn’t matter, not now. Riddle can’t rattle him further than what he’s already responsible for, and he’s responsible for _all_ of this. He always has been. This is just another chapter in the story, isn’t it? Harry hating himself for it doesn’t make it less true.

Harry stands just outside the tent with his head tipped back, staring up at towering trees, reaching branches, sunlight cutting through an overcast sky, their breath fogging around their faces in the cold as Riddle takes a place at Harry’s side.

Harry doesn’t know what to look at first. He wants to look at _everything,_ and yet, he finds his eyes drawn to Riddle, and the figure he cuts in his high-collared black cloak. He looks like a demon in the daylight, perhaps even more than he does at night. He looks dangerous. He _is_ dangerous.

And yet.

“Thank you,” Harry says, before he can overthink it. Before he can doubt himself. 

In response, Riddle’s face goes blank. When Harry gives him a sidelong glance, there’s something there in his eyes. _“Thank you?”_ He echoes. It’s not mocking. Instead, he sounds… perplexed.

And Harry decides. “Yes,” he says more firmly. “For fixing my glasses. It was kind of you.”

Riddle’s brows draw together. At that, his expression twists into one of polite disgust. “I didn’t do it to be kind. I did it so your training could progress.”

“I know,” he answers, because he does. Harry knows kindness was the last thing on Riddle’s mind. He knows that for this man, who knows that Harry _knows_ him, even the art of _feigning_ kindness probably didn’t occur to him. He has no need to pretend with someone who knows all his tricks.

But Riddle didn’t do it as a trick.

“Doesn’t make it less kind, though,” Harry adds softly. “You could have called me stupid. You could have let me struggle. I never would have known.”

Riddle is quiet for a moment. His eyes flicker back and forth between Harry’s, reading him, the wheels inside his mind visibly turning all the while. “We’re allies. It would have been counterintuitive to my ends.”

“Maybe,” Harry replies. He raises and drops his shoulder in a shrug, and doesn’t say anything else as he turns his gaze back to the world around him. 

Everything is so bright. So sharp.

Riddle exhales. Then he inclines his head toward the direction of their usual sparring grounds. “Shall we?”

Harry nods at once. He takes a step, and then he pauses to look up again in quiet wonder. To see the texture of bark on the trees. The veins in the leaves on the ground. He doesn’t want to stop looking, to stop marveling. 

It’s like the world is a brand new place. 

Like the first time he discovered magic.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “But… slowly.”

Riddle looks at him. Then he, too, nods.

They fall into stride.

* * *

  
  


“Let’s discuss wandless magic,” Riddle says, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. 

Harry nearly groans, panting as he pushes himself up off the ground from another solid dueling defeat. Apparently Riddle has finally reached his quota of humiliating Harry for the day, and has decided to change direction to academic torture. Again. “I thought you were still on about holding a warming charm overnight.”

“You struggled to apply focus over force; I’m tailoring my lesson to suit. So. Wandless magic.” Riddle’s dark eyes are sharp, his stance commanding. Harry begrudgingly admits in the privacy of his mind that he _looks_ like a teacher, even if Harry hates him for not having a hair out of place after well over an hour of wandlessly avoiding Harry’s spells. Prat. “In some cases known as accidental magic. What do you know about it?”

Harry blinks. Frowns. “Er—well. Usually kids have outbursts before they get their wands, I guess? But for adults, it’s… just the ability to do magic without needing your wand…” he trails off lamely. 

Riddle looks equally unimpressed. “Quite.” He purses his lips for a moment, then visibly decides on another approach. “What do you know about wandlore?”

Now _this_ Harry at least knows a little bit about. “Different kinds of woods and different kinds of cores interact differently to channel a wizard’s magic more effectively. Some wands barely work for some wizards, where others…” He thinks of his own holly wand with a trickle of fondness that soothes some of his internal irritation. “Others are a perfect fit. And if you have the right fit, it can make you loads stronger.”

That, at least, earns an approving nod, though when Riddle speaks, he says, “Yes and no. The right wand doesn’t actually make a magic-user any stronger, it’s just _how_ effectively it channels the magic. Power is inherent to the person. The efficacy of using that magic is inherent to the wand, based on how well the wand and wizard attune to one another. However, magic as a force is not something that only lives in people. That’s why there are magical creatures, magical plants—it’s in the environment. All wizards can make use of the magic in themselves. Good wizards can make use of their own magic, but channel it through themselves without need for a wand. _Great_ wizards can not only use their own magic wandlessly…” Riddle tilts his head slightly, the starts of a proud smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “…but they can draw magic from the environment around them and channel _that_ as well.”

Harry stares at him; it’s clear Riddle expects this to impress him, but Harry already _knows_ Voldemort can do wandless magic. Dumbledore could, too. But a different part of his explanation draws focus in Harry’s brain… 

“You’re saying magic is like the Force?” He blurts.

Riddle’s expression falters and goes blank. He blinks. “Like what?”

“Like the Force,” Harry tries again, wheels in his brain turning—memories shuffling and rearranging, peering out from the crack in the cupboard door, locked back in after cleaning up from making breakfast, Dudley’s great mass taking up the couch and playing the telly far too loud on Saturday mornings. Laser swords, spaceships, a great and mysterious Force that exists in all beings. “You know, Star Wars?”

Riddle stares at him. Harry then realizes exactly who he’s speaking to, and _when_ he came from.

“Oh, you’re from the—right, alright.” Harry flushes, flusters, and rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s, um. It’s in all living things, not just people, but the people who are aware of it can make use of it, right? And you’re saying that’s what magic is like.”

“Yes, exactly,” Riddle replies, though he frowns at Harry slightly. “And wands are magical objects, but a wizard doesn’t need a wand.”

“And _drawing from the environment…”_ Harry echoes back. He thinks about it for a moment. “You’re saying that you can pull the magic from other things and use it?”

“Yes.” Riddle looks pleased that he’s processed this tidbit. “You can strip wards from a building and turn them into raw energy, draw magic from the ley lines in the earth if you’re in a place of power. From the immediate environment, too; but not easily, and not without cost. Anything drained too deeply will fail and die. Plants wither, creatures falter. The most complicated the thing, the more struggle it puts up. Though, it’s nearly impossible to make use of another sentient being’s magic, unless the two are bonded. It’s a rare enough skill that most witches and wizards who _are_ bonded wouldn’t have the slightest idea of where to begin.”

Harry recalls at once the final words of Bill and Fleur’s wedding— _I now declare you bonded for life._ It means something different to him now, hearing that. Perhaps a wizarding wedding is like a magical vow of a different sort. The concept is both fascinating and alarming. 

In fact, the entire concept has shifted things in his mind slightly; Riddle talks about magic in a way that no one he’s ever encountered does. Teachers at Hogwarts always referred to it as some wild thing that could be mastered with practice, but that not everyone is capable or attuned to all forms—but to hear Riddle speak of it this way, is it not more about the person, themselves, being mindfully aware of how the magic is cast through themselves?

It makes sense now, he thinks, why one of the key steps of becoming an Animagus is intense, inwardly-focused meditation.

Harry’s always been bollocks at meditation; his mind is too loud, his thoughts race, and he’s easily distracted, but maybe with a simple enough spell, something he could cast with his eyes closed, able to focus solely and _wholly_ on the sensation of the magic moving through him so he can figure out how to copy that flow nonverbally… 

“You look deep in thought,” Riddle notes.

Harry blinks. He focuses and brings himself back to the present, looking up to meet Riddle’s eyes. “Yeah.”

Riddle waits a moment. When Harry says nothing, he raises a brow. “Anything to share?”

“Not particularly, no,” Harry replies. He doesn’t want to speak his thoughts aloud, not until he’s had some time to test his theories alone. Not that it’ll be easy, since Riddle doesn’t bloody _sleep,_ but he doesn’t think the man would begrudge him solo practice time, either… 

He’ll never one-up Riddle in a duel if he can’t produce nonverbal spells reliably. And the only way he’ll be able surprise Riddle with the skill is if he learns it _away_ from him. 

A flicker of excitement starts in Harry’s chest; he bites down on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling. He can’t give anything away. Not to Riddle, who’ll be able to sense it from a mile, like a serpent after a rat. 

Harry can be a snake too, though. And he’s damn good at playing dumb. After all, he’s had lots of practice.

“Well, actually, I guess…” Harry starts slowly. “How does all that tie in to what you were saying about sectioning your magical core? You know, for the warming charm thing.”

Riddle’s eyes sharpen with approval, and the corner of his mouth curls into a smile. “An excellent question. So, the same focus and awareness of the magic around you can be applied to the magic _inside you,_ and such awareness is paramount to the development of new spells, as well as holding area of effect spells for extended periods…”

Harry listens attentively. He doesn’t smile; he doesn’t have to. For now, the satisfaction of knowing Riddle has a surprise coming is enough.

* * *

The evening comes as it always does, cold and quiet, with Potter seated on the ground with a can of Spam and tinned pineapple. Voldemort suppresses a grimace, though Potter looks perfectly content before the fire; it’s the first time in days that they’ve been in each other’s company without Potter skittering off like a kicked dog.

The memory of that night has lingered—both of them blazing with fury, the air thick and tense and crackling with static. The heat of Potter’s body when Voldemort seized him and prevented the little idiot from stepping into the campfire just to get away from him. How Voldemort’s hands had fit at that toned, trim waist. How blown his pupils had been, consuming the wild green of his eyes. How close their faces had been, and Potter’s shuddering breath against his mouth. The way his voice shook when he announced his retreat to his tent.

He’s been downright avoidant ever since. 

And Voldemort has been _thinking._

Sex is not new to him. In the past, he’s treated it more as something to be experienced simply to know he’s experienced it, rather than any real _attraction._ The action of sex was pleasurable only in the most base physical sense, but he found the closeness cloying, the clinging afterward annoying. It’s not worth the trouble when arousal is easily ignored, or fulfilled when necessary on his own. 

But there has never been intrigue. There has never been… for lack of a better word, _chemistry._ Animal magnetism. A _draw._

And it’s not purely physical, Voldemort must acknowledge, for if it were, he could surely ignore it again. There’s a mental component as well. He _wants_ Potter’s mind, his wit, his temper. He wants Potter’s red-cheeked arousal, his denial, his _desire,_ to flay it bare before them, undeniable.

He wants the mystery for his own. He wants to take him apart until there is nothing left to discover. After all, that’s always been the goal, to an extent, has it not? To possess Harry Potter’s allegiance, his loyalty. What better way to keep him close than this?

Potter is young, isolated from everything he knows. He’s clearly hormonal, as young men are wont to be. To make the best of this tension between them, to fan it to flame, seems the most common-sense thing in the world. 

It shouldn’t be difficult. Potter is _lonely._ That much is clear to Voldemort: the boy is desperately, _terribly_ lonely. Mistreated, and unaware of just how mistreated he’s been. At that thought, a prickle of anger rouses somewhere deep and dark inside the hollow of Voldemort’s ribs. To think that this world’s golden boy has never seen a doctor, wearing the same glasses since he was a child—how could the abuse have passed under the radar without notice? At least for _him,_ there was no one to worry, no one to _care._ But Potter… he should have had every wizard in the world vying to adore him.

So why didn’t he?

Voldemort turns the locket over in his hand, its quiet hissing a soothing balm. It’s been more agreeable lately, and when Voldemort holds it, it radiates a gentle warmth. The echo of a heartbeat. The impression of… contentedness. These stolen moments of holding it in the evenings are adding up, though Potter will never leave him with it for more than an hour; regardless, it’s bending to him. It won’t be long. 

Then, at the very least, he will be immortal again. Then he can start considering how best to begin his gambit.

But until then… 

“You’re continuing to improve in your dueling,” Voldemort says, matter-of-fact, because while Potter has not made _astronomical_ progress, the truth is still the truth. “And I expect that being able to _read_ the books I gave you will assist some in learning new spells.”

Potter at least has the decency to look sheepish for a moment. Then the expression clears as he pointedly spears a sawed-off square of Spam and shoves it into his mouth. “Yeah, well,” he hedges as he chews, and Voldemort’s brows draw together. He rarely questions his decisions after he’s made them, but right now, his better judgement is asking _really? This one?_ “You’re not an awful teacher, either.”

The doubt disappears. For a moment, Voldemort is left to process those words and the odd, hollow feeling they leave behind. His frown remains. He looks down at the locket. Makes a decision. “I had hoped to teach at Hogwarts.”

Potter stops chewing. He looks up slowly, and visibly swallows. There’s something open and tentative in his face when he softly says, “I know.”

It’s a sharp jab to the chest; one that Voldemort would not have expected to reach him, and yet. And yet. His expression twists, something ugly and angry taking root inside him, roots breaking through the concrete of his unshakable resolve, and still, he cannot force it down. “You _know?”_ He sneers. “So Dumbledore told you?”

“Yes.”

Somehow that’s worse. Voldemort’s hand tightens around the locket, and its hissing grows louder, aggravated as his temper burns to life. “Did he tell you how he didn’t even give me a chance?” He spits. 

“He showed me the memory.” Potter watches him, still as stone. There’s something in his expression now, lurking beneath the surface. “You looked terrible.”

Voldemort’s lip curls. Of course Dumbledore showed Potter the _memory._ He wonders what the old man said. He hates that he wonders. 

He should be above this. Thirty-four years old—he is no longer a child! He doesn’t care for Dumbledore’s opinion. He doesn’t care for _Potter’s_ opinion, this _boy—_ “Yes, you’ve _said.”_

“No, I…” Potter says, and the look on his face is inexplicable. “Worse than now. So much worse. Your eyes—” Potter cuts himself off with a grimace. He looks away as though he can’t bear to look any longer, lost to memory. “They were human, but they were bloody and awful. Your face barely looked like _you_ anymore. I’ve seen all sorts of things—from you as a kid, to the way _he_ looks now. But that time stuck out the most.” 

Voldemort says nothing, anger still smoldering low in his gut. He knows what Potter speaks of; it was how he looked just after creating his fifth horcrux. It took weeks for his body to recover. The effort likely would have killed him, if it hadn’t been impossible for him to die. He knows what he looked like; knows it’s a far cry from how he looks now, and it… mollifies him, somewhat. To know Potter’s horror came from seeing him half-dead.

Potter’s attention comes back to real time, as his eyes grow clear, and he looks up again. “I know Dumbledore said no because he knew what you’d done—what you _have_ done,” Potter corrects himself. “But I also… I know…” Potter grows quiet. Then, with a blustering breath, he says, “He never trusted you. Not from the beginning. It never really seemed fair, to me.”

Does the wound sting because it’s fresh? Perhaps that’s it. Voldemort rears back but doesn’t stand, doesn’t flee. Still, it feels somewhat like Potter’s stricken him, though he’s known this from the start. It’s not a _surprise._ He’s always _known_ there was no love lost between himself and Dumbledore. 

And still, knowing that Dumbledore has spent all this time telling tales of Voldemort’s childhood, when he barely spared a _word_ for the child… he is… _bitter._

“Why?” Voldemort demands suddenly, leaning forward, and piercing Potter in place with his eyes. “Why did he spend so much time telling you everything about me, when any _decent_ mentor would have been teaching you how to _kill_ me? What _use_ is it to you?” He sneers. He knows it’s an ugly look, bared teeth and wild eyes that exacerbates the sharp irregularity of his features. He knows this look has frightened others as long as he’s been alive. He puts it to use now without hesitation. “Did he think you could recount tales from my childhood and I would dissolve into hysterics? Why waste your time, Harry Potter, learning about poor, pathetic _orphan_ Tom Riddle? How will _that_ help you slay the monster from your nightmares?”

The fire crackles. All the while, Harry hasn’t flinched. He looks back evenly, steadily. And when he breaks eye contact, it’s just to look down at the Spam can in his palm. He sets it down, pushes himself up slowly. He doesn’t look bothered, but the longer he doesn’t speak, the more unsettled and aggravated Voldemort becomes. 

Why? Why would Dumbledore fill Harry Potter’s mind with memories of a life so far gone, he could have never hoped to touch it? Why this boy, one that Voldemort never could have _dreamed_ of knowing? 

_(Until now,_ something traitorous in him whispers. _He’s here now.)_

“I think,” Potter starts slowly, looking down at the fire with an even, pensive expression, “that maybe that was the point.” A beat of oppressive quiet. “Dumbledore made mistakes. I think he was a good man overall, but… but he didn’t always choose the right thing. For you _or_ me. Or for himself.” 

Potter takes a breath. 

Voldemort silently lets one out.

Then Potter turns those eyes to him. “I think he wanted someone, just one person, to remember that you’re human.” Potter’s lips quirk up, but he doesn’t look happy, not in the least. “And that, even though you’ve done horrible things, what happened to you was… really sad.”

Voldemort _seethes._ “I don’t want your _pity.”_

“I’m not Dumbledore, Riddle,” Harry Potter replies softly. “I don’t pity you. I just… understand.”

There’s a silence that stretches between them in that moment, that fills the empty space with conflicting things. Hot from the fire, cold from the weather. The desire to possess Potter and the desire to strangle him. 

“Can I ask you one thing?” Potter says, but continues before Voldemort can answer him either way. “Dumbledore turned you down for the Defense position—for you, that was recently. But the… the _you_ of my time clearly didn’t end up where you did. I probably should have asked this a long time ago, but I think we both had other things on our minds.” He tilts his head. His eyes are… luminous. Bewitching. The light reflects off them, and he looks like death and ruin, bundled into the figure of a young man that Voldemort _hates_ and _wants_ more than almost anything. “How did you get here?”

Voldemort considers not answering. He considers getting up and walking away. He considers attacking, punishing this _boy_ for his insolence—under his wand. Under his mouth.

He considers a lot of things.

But in his hand, the locket hisses gently. It beats like a heart, and Voldemort can imagine that it belongs to Harry Potter, bleeding in his grasp. It stays his violence. 

“Dumbledore thought I never wanted the job,” he answers. “In truth, I didn’t hold out hope. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it. In the wake of his refusal, I gained access to Salazar Slytherin’s diary. Inside it was a ritual.” He presses his lips together. “To show me _my noble purpose,_ if I was willing to give up everything I hold dear. As I hold nothing dear, I thought, _what have I to lose?”_

Potter inhales. Exhales. “You wanted direction.”

“I’ve always known I was destined for greatness,” Voldemort says by way of answer. His fingers tighten around the locket, and the hissing grows high, reedy. Potter flinches. “I knew I would settle for nothing less. I wanted confirmation of my choice.”

A moment passes. Then, Potter says, eyes wide with realization, “You doubted yourself.”

Voldemort snaps his teeth. “I did not _doubt.”_

“It’s _human_ to doubt—”

And that, _that_ is too much.

Voldemort surges to his feet, blind with fury. _“I am not!”_ He hisses, and the locket hisses, and Potter stands, unshakeable, as he stalks closer. “I am no mere human, I am the _greatest sorcerer in the world!_ I have traversed this gap of time alone. I _alone_ have achieved what no other wizard has been capable of! I am _not_ Tom Riddle, Harry Potter! Tom Riddle is _dead!”_

In those eyes sparks indignation, but the fire doesn’t spread. Voldemort wants to burn him down when Potter says, “Just because you ripped yourself into pieces doesn’t make Tom Riddle any less alive. Just because you’re angry and hurt, just because you’ve _killed,_ doesn’t make you less human. You hid them, but the pieces are all still out there. Don’t you see that?” He inclines his head toward the locket. And there is something… deep. Sad. Pained, in the tight lines around his eyes. “You’re _hurting_ it.” 

Voldemort recoils; the blood rushing in his ears temporarily subsides, and in the absence of it, he can hear the locket howl. 

His fingers slacken. Silence falls.

Slowly, between them, Potter lifts his hands. Cups them—asking, this time, not demanding.

Voldemort’s other hand curls into a fist at his side. He is terribly aware of his wand in his inner breast pocket, and the desire to curse Harry Potter from the face of the earth.

But the locket’s chain coils against olive skin, and he sets it in Potter’s palm. He turns to go—

A hand closes around his wrist. 

“What?” Voldemort hisses, low and cold. He doesn’t turn. “What more could you _possibly_ want?”

Another tug. Voldemort bares his teeth—

—but he turns around. _“What?”_

Potter tilts his head, and in his hand, the locket is quiet. He pulls at Voldemort’s wrist, and for lack of any other option but snatching it back, Voldemort allows it. Allows Potter to lift it. Allows Potter’s fingers to worm between his own until his hand is cupped, just like Potter’s had been. 

His touch is warm.

And Potter… 

…places the locket back in his hand. 

Slowly. Gently. And he cups his trembling hands beneath Voldemort’s own.

“You said you want its loyalty,” Potter says. He stands close like this, head ducked and voice hushed as he looks down at the locket in Voldemort’s palm. He smells of smoke. “All it knows is hate and hurt—that’s all _you_ know. But loyalty doesn’t come from that.” He curls his hands closed. Voldemort’s close with them. And Potter looks up. “Try wearing it tonight. Keep it close. See if that helps.”

“Why should I?” Voldemort retorts quietly, automatically, but he doesn’t mean it; he means _why are you doing this,_ he means _what are you doing,_ he means _I don’t understand._

“Because that’s what your horcruxes always want.” Potter’s mouth presses into a thin line, lashes lowered. “To connect. Even when they start to kill what they attach to, they never stop trying. They don’t want to be alone. They don’t want to be thrown away. No matter what terrible curses you put on them, they’re bits of a human soul, and humans are social. They need friends.”

_A friend…_

Inside him, some terrible sensation _crawls._ Something he can’t give name to, that reacts with disgust, reacts with denial. Lord Voldemort does not need _friends._

(He does not acknowledge the time before Hogwarts, he does not acknowledge nights spent shivering and alone, he does not acknowledge the memories of older children jeering, younger children being adopted, and Tom Riddle remaining. He does not acknowledge that no person is capable of surviving from birth to death without help.)

Voldemort means to say something, some smart retort, but before he can, Potter pulls away—ducks down to pick up his empty cans from beside the fire, and tosses them into their makeshift rubbish bin. Without pity, without _mercy_ for the bomb he’s dropped, the devastation he’s caused, Potter leaves him with the locket and retreats to the darkness of his tent, alone, without looking back.


End file.
